


each passing hour

by Julx3tte



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Faerghus four origin story, Meet-Cute, Non-Explicit Sex, One Night Stands, Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Walk Into A Bar, arranged marriage but not to each other, diplomat!sylvain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25703911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/Julx3tte
Summary: They’d met on a fluke.The week was some kind of special hell for Sylvain and he’d left Felix’s three texts unread and Dimitri’s voicemail as a red dot on his phone and drove south as far as he could, out to the smaller towns that wouldn’t catch his face on the news.Disgraced heir to House Gautier breaks off engagement with Srengi princess under allegations of infidelity.Sylvain and Ingrid meet on a one night stand, the week he leaves a relationship and she enters one.  Modern-AU, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 83
Kudos: 44





	1. keep calm / compromise

**Author's Note:**

> longfic is here!!!. i know its angsty right now but i swear its fluff. 
> 
> don't worry, more Ingrid POV coming too.
> 
> posting on . gotta post before midnight AHHH
> 
> aug3 is the day of death for the sylvgrid fandom and i wanted to contribute <3 
> 
> [listen to the playlist here. this chapter is songs 1-2](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BX6ayHqXCqqXcQ6y5K3Ma?si=hko8IFdCQimQTI5CyOs_Fg)
> 
> Ch1:   
> _There's no such thing as too far / No, no such thing as too far Too far gone_  
>  &  
>  _You all alone, we all alone / You see me here, I see you there / I need somebody, I need somebody_

They’d met on a fluke. 

The week was some kind of special hell for Sylvain and he’d left Felix’s three texts unread and Dimitri’s voicemail as a red dot on his phone and drove south as far as he could, out to the smaller towns that wouldn’t catch his face on the news.

_ Disgraced heir to House Gautier breaks off engagement with Srengi princess under allegations of infidelity. _

Every major news channel reported the same headline the night before Sylvian’s drive, and he scarcely got a moment before his father and brother swept into his office to have  _ words  _ with him. They’d stayed just long enough to leave his cheek red and knuckles blistered.

It was just like them, to let their emotions cloud their actions. The brief encounter wasn’t any more or less than growing up in Gautier, but them in his office, pushing their way past his secretary and slamming the door shut only to stomp out again minutes later, it hit different, was all. 

He sent the secretary home with a week’s worth of PTO before he left, emergency duffel in hand, straight to his car.

So here he was, hours from Fhirdiad wearing some old hoodie and drinking whiskey at a hole in the wall bar that had a few more connections to the Crown than Sylvain would have liked. He didn’t know it when he came in. Now he tried his best to ignore the insignia of the  _ Blade Breakers _ , Dimitri’s wife’s father’s old group.

As if the ghost of Jeralt would bother to say anything to him. Maybe he was being paranoid, but any connection was one too many right now. Sylvain didn’t want to be recognized or connected with. 

Someone else walked into the bar, a shorter blonde woman that looked rougher than the smart business attire that she wore. She looked around for a minute and took the stool next to Sylvain and ordered a tall vodka and cranberry, furiously texting.

Sylvain hoped she wouldn’t run into some shared article on her social media about him and stared straight past the bartender at the line of bottles on the wall, glancing over every now and then to see. But the woman didn’t so much as look at him.

The phone rang and the woman declined the call immediately, slammed it facedown, and took a long sip of her drink. Only then did she bother to look at him.

Sylvain could tell when someone was checking him out. Her green eyes ran up and down his body and stopped to study his face. He probably looked haggard. He’d barely slept. He definitely had bags under his eyes. It didn’t help that he drove the 4 hours straight here, checking into the hotel just long enough to put some concealer on to hide the purple bruise growing on his cheek. 

Still, she seemed undeterred, eyes flickering between his sweater and his face. She offered a smile, at which Sylvain nodded.

Maybe he just looked sad enough that he needed company, or maybe it was impossible for him to turn his womanizing charms off. Which was completely untrue. Whatever had happened between him and Kyrie was the opposite of what the reports said. Despite his philandering reputation, he’d been nothing but faithful since they’d been engaged.

“Passing by?” she asked, making a face at him that said,  _ you’re way too pretty for this place _ . It was true. The bar was a hole in the wall - wooden bartop, tons of tap handles hung on the walls, and even a few dart boards - though it was no dump. Between Garreg Mach and the capital, Sylvain drank at worse places and frequented better.

“How’d you know?” he asked, looking at her for the first time. She was wearing smart pants, code for,  _ fuck gendered expectations of officewear _ , a blazer that looked obviously uncomfortable, and her blonde hair was tied up in a braid that Sylvain might have described as pretty if he were looking.

“Your sweater says Fhirdiad,” she replied. “You’re a bit of a ways away from there.”

Sylvain nodded, following her eyes to his hands, which were tapping gently against the bartop. 

“Yeah. Just passing by.”

There weren’t many other patrons taking nightcaps so early in the week, but the bar wasn’t empty. The bartender floated in and out to give refills and serve other customers. She matched him drink for drink in silence. Maybe she was brooding too - it seemed like it. Between shoving her phone away as soon as it buzzed and the way she hung her head back behind her shoulders every time she seemed to remember something.

Once or twice she narrowed her eyes at the side of his face; Sylvain quickly turned to face her, angling his cheek away before she could look too closely and see where he’d rubbed the concealer off by accident. But neither of them said anything, sitting quietly, observing.

Sylvian wasn’t sure how they made it back to his hotel room.

Maybe it was after the bartender asked last call - Sylvain was getting too dizzy to keep his head up and was glad for the fresh air during his few blocks walk back. The woman quickly paid and asked if he needed help getting back.

He’d asked her what kind of help and she smiled the kind of grin he used to see when he went out on the town and found the rare date that didn’t want him for his last name or his money or anything else.

The next thing he knew, they were crashing against each other on his bed, limbs tangled wildly, breathless. Sylvain had taken a small room instead of his usual suite, expecting to pass through over the night and drive off as soon as he woke up. The small hallway between the door and the tiny space, scarcely large enough for a bed and an air conditioner and a dresser was littered with their clothes and Sylvain’s hand was wrapped with her hair before they even hit the mattress.

Sex with a stranger never felt dirty for Sylvain, but in this context it felt almost cathartic. He hadn’t bedded anyone in more than a year - his own betrothed refused him on whatever ground she could throw together that night. Kyrie barely even touched him. Their marriage was an act of convenience, and contrary to the news reports, it was  _ her  _ that was likely to be the source of infidelity.

Not that he’d ever admit as much publicly. No, he’d be the one to bear that. It wouldn’t be out of character anyway, and besides, it was better to let things lay and move on. 

The blonde woman in his bed didn’t think so. Stripped of her pieced together office wear and braid undone, she was stunning. The pink blush on her cheeks would have been enough, but she was  _ strong _ . The way her legs wrapped around his waist told him that she could have picked him up and threw him across the room if she wanted to. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his back and held onto him tight with every touch of their hips, and Sylvain  _ swooned _ .

They’d repositioned and Sylvain guessed he’d wiped his cheek across the pillow or bed sheets a few too many times because at some point Ingrid stopped and touched his cheek gingerly. He’d already forgotten about the blows he took from his brother earlier; she traced the edges of his bruise until her finger traced against his lips. 

It was the softest touch he’d felt in a year and Sylvain came dangerously close to crying. So instead, he blinked the mist out of his eyes and kissed her again before she could ask.

It wasn’t until after they both had a minute to drink on $5 bottles of water on the counter and come down from the alcohol and the sweet way she breathed into his ear that he realized he didn’t even know her name. In all of his years of bad dates, it was a first to have sex with a woman and not even know what to call her. Sylvain was almost impressed with himself, if he wasn’t breathing so heavily.

They were laying next to each other, half an arm’s length apart, still wrapped in blankets. Sylvain glanced over at her, or rather the nightlight just past her, and nodded to himself. Maybe it was the way she eyed him - for a stranger, her eyes held a tremendous amount of kindness, and it almost made him shrink. But she made him feel safe and seen, and it was more than he’d had for the better part of a year. 

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “Mmm?”

“What should I call you?” He asked, tracing his finger down her wrist, before quickly realizing that she might  _ not _ want him to know her. “Doesn’t have to be a real name,” he added quickly.

“Ingrid,” she said, rolling over to press a soft kiss on his lips. “Call me Ingrid.”

* * *

Ingrid had never had a one night stand before. She wasn’t so chaste that it was her first time sleeping with someone, but it was a first to not even know his name. During sex, she’d simply whispered soft  _ yesses _ and occupied her mouth elsewhere; biting his earlobes, a tactical decision that paid dividends with the way he shuddered at her touch, and bursting the capillaries on his neck.

He was handsome enough, obviously just passing through like she was, and she barely remembered the process of deciding to let him take her home. Neither of them remembered who initiated. She remembered paying for her drinks and stuffing her credit card back into her wallet. The next thing Ingrid realized, his warm hands were wrapped around her rib cage, unhooking her bra and running lines down her side.

No, she had no idea who he was but she could tell that he was probably in a similar place as her. His hotel room had all of a weekend duffle bag and barely looked settled in. Just like her own, when she’d decided that she needed to get away from Galatea for the week.

Just one. The following week, her presence would be all but required. Glenn would be visiting and she needed to be on her best behavior until they signed the paperwork and paid the bride’s fee and swept her off to Fhirdiad.

It made her want to spit on the Crest of Daphnel and never return, but all she could spare was a week away, her cover story concocted by some of her college friends who were taking her on a  _ bachelorette week _ , good lord. Of all things, Mercedes was at least convincing, swooning her parents right up until she’d gotten Ingrid into the car and gotten them on the road back to her flat.

Mercedes had left a few days ago, trusting Ingrid to  _ make good decisions _ and telling her that she’d see her in Fhirdiad in the coming week.

So much for that - Ingrid’s first real decision alone, save for gorging herself in food and sleeping in was to get drunk and sleep with a tall handsome stranger with a mysterious past.

His face said as much. Maybe he’d been in a bar fight, though he looked too tender for that. His knuckles weren’t bruised, either, and the way he touched her said more than he looked.

He was almost grateful for it - he asked enough questions to know what she needed before devoting himself to the task. It was almost a shame that she didn’t know his name, though it wouldn’t help.

In a week she’d put a ring on her finger and that was that. If anything, this man was her last hurrah. 

So when he asked for her name, there was no need to lie.

“Ingrid,” she said, rolling over to press a soft kiss on his lips. “Call me Ingrid.”

“My name’s Sylvain,” he replied, drawing himself over her and dipping down for a longer kiss. “Call me Sylvain.”


	2. afterglow / twenty eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fingers to my toes / You know how to touch me / I won't let you go_
> 
> & _I’m so wrong, I’m so wrong / (To let you in my) / To let you in my home_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [follow the playlist here (songs 3&4)!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BX6ayHqXCqqXcQ6y5K3Ma?si=V6zD2fYXTIO4w3qVoZ0f0g)

_ It was a good decision, _ Ingrid decided. Despite intending to leave immediately after, Ingrid let herself be drawn in by Sylvain’s touch. Even after they sobered, Sylvain’s wide smile was enough to stay again and again, until Ingrid’s stomach grumbled loudly enough that Sylvain tempered down his passion in favor of food.

Ingrid had never met anyone that approached sex - even sex with a stranger, the way Sylvain did. He was attentive and self sacrificing all at once. Even though they barely knew each other he asked what she preferred and gave soft commands for her to adjust.

She’d picked up some pieces of why he seemed so eager -- his former fiancee had frozen their bed for more than a year, depriving him of her touch. He’d told her the story behind the bruise on his face, too, hidden behind a thin layer of concealer. His brother had punched him when he’d found out Sylvain’s engagement had ended officially. She didn’t get more of the story than that, between bouts; they were too out of breath for more than a short sentence here and there.

Hours after they’d returned to his hotel room, nearly to sunrise, they’d drained the room of all of the water bottles, $4 tags still attached, and thrown them into the wastebasket. Sylvain had run out several times to buy bottles of sports drinks from the machine in the hallway. Luckily he’d brought petty cash. Ingrid never carried any, and besides, the thought of leaving a hotel room that wasn’t hers in just a bathrobe just to use a vending machine seemed like much too much effort. She’d rather have drank tap water, but Sylvain insisted. 

He stepped out of the bathroom now, eyes contracted from the bright, pale light just behind the door, still readjusting to the darkness swallowing him up. Ingrid’s night vision wasn’t yet gone, and she studied the man.

Sylvain was fit. Underneath his haggard appearance, though she’d convinced him to shave at some point and he now looked much more handsome, Sylvain kept his body in shape. It was evident. She could only see the outline of his frame in the dim light, but he had a wide chest and a strong core despite his height, and he knew how to use his weight and stamina.

He said a joke earlier about training for every possibility, and she had to stifle a comparison to Glenn, whose near chivalrous demeanor demanded that he meet whatever needs were in front of him. Sylvian was certainly less chivalrous - the man was helping her make bad decisions a week before a high profile engagement while going through his own major life transitions. If anything, he was selfish, but that was fine. The important thing was whether he had good taste in shit food.

“What do you want from McDonalds?“ she asked, glancing up at him as she pulled her phone. Earlier she’d turned off her notifications, though she made sure to text Mercie a quick check-in letting the woman know that she was safe. 

Sylvain stopped on his tracks to look at her. She had the blanket wrapped around her torso, and it looked like Sylvain wanted to draw the sheets back and wrap himself around her again. He glanced back and forth between her phone and the way she narrowed her eyes at him and, it seemed, let the thought float away.

By the time Sylvain made it back to the bed - he slid into the space next to her slowly, as if he was giving her an opportunity to leave and slide off the other side of the bed - she’d already filled her cart.

Three double cheeseburgers, an order of nuggets, large fries, and a sundae. It was her usual trash food order, though she could feel Sylvain’s eyes bulging when he stole a peek at her screen. She’d told him that she had an appetite earlier, and it was his problem whether he believed her or not.

Sylvain kissed her on the shoulder and her hand found its way to his hair, ruffling it before she realized, stopping abruptly. Sylvain nuzzled her hand at the loss.

“I want a Big Mac meal with sprite I guess,” he replied, watching her click his order in.

“That it?” she said, scrolling through the pastries section, half wondering if he’d add something just because her fingers were hovering over the pictures.

“Hmmmm.” Sylvain said, pausing to think, tracing Ingrid’s stomach with his fingers. He dipped his head to rest on her shoulder. “Milkshake. Chocolate.”

Ingrid approved. It was a wise choice, to order a bit more than he probably wanted, especially when it came to dessert. 

“Got it.” Ingrid put the order in and watched the delivery timer. “Half hour.”

Sylvain grinned, pressing his nose against her neck. “However do we spend a half hour?”

She was tempted to go again. She felt languid, tired, and it would be nice to have Sylvain croon over her. But there were questions she had and this was the first opportunity they’d had all night to talk to each other, and she didn’t want this to pass without hearing more. For all he was doing for her, the least she could do was ask.

“Tell me what happened?” she said, touching her own cheek. She was sure her silhouette was visible to him at this distance, and that he could follow where she was pointing. 

There hadn’t been time to talk about much else. He’d mentioned his brother and former fiancee, sure, but they were at it again before either of them could say any more. Mid-coitus, the only words they exchanged were instructions or praises.

He was insatiable and she was just as fit as he was, and it was a good combination, especially after the alcohol wore off. But now there was a moment to pause, and Ingrid was starting to think that her one night stand wasn’t as dark and brooding as she pegged him for originally.

He was an idiot, but in the way that made you want to protect it with all your heart. He asked, earlier, over the last of the vending machine drinks, whether this was her first tryst, and she asked how many he’d had himself. He shot back with a line so bad that Ingrid broke into laughter:  _ if I’d met you sooner, I wouldn’t have needed them _ .

It was almost like he couldn’t help himself. He started laughing, too, and took the opportunity to roll over closer to her and pepper her with kisses and that was that.

Now, though, pondering her question, Sylvain sat somber and serious. Hopefully he hadn’t been re-playing his brother punching him or something worse; that was exactly what sleeping together was supposed to make him forget.  _ Great job, Ingrid. _

She could feel him grip the edge of the bedsheets on the other side of his body, away from her, and he took a deep breath before he spoke.

“My brother punched me,” Sylvain said, sofly. “He thinks I did something unacceptable and he’s never bothered to listen to me, and I didn’t really have it in me to fight. So I let him. It’s not the worst punch he’s landed on me.” 

Ingrid didn’t say anything. She rubbed the top of his leg and waited for him to continue.

“I told you earlier that I’m getting out of a serious relationship, I didn’t tell you how serious. We were engaged, 15 months or so. I did it mostly for family reasons, and, well, they didn’t like that I was breaking it off. So there’s that.” 

Sylvain turned his head to look at Ingrid, hazel eyes barely visible against the ambient light of the hotel room. “Turns out I have a type. Blonde and heart belonging to someone else.”

It was ironic that her first and last rendezvous was with a man who’d been exactly where she was now. Before she could ponder it any further, Sylvain gripped the hand that was resting on his leg and squeezed once before letting go.

“What about you?” he said, voice sharp and resigned. “Why are you sleeping with a stranger a week before you’re proposed to?”

It was Ingrid’s turn to grip tightly, both hands; one around Sylvain’s hand and the other around her phone. She could feel her body coil, pulling her shoulders into a thin shrug, and she pushed her back into the fluff of the pillow. There was silence before Sylvain asked, “you okay?”

“Yeah, I-” Ingrid said, trailing off as she stared at the dark spot on the wall past the foot of the bed. 

The first time she’d met Glenn, she could understand why the maids swooned after him. The man was refined, gentle, and  _ polite. _ Compared to the rest of the men that her father courted for her, he was by far the most pleasant. 

He’d even managed to make the grace of their first date pleasant. It was really an opportunity for their fathers to sign papers and find a timeline. Ingrid could still remember their lunch out on the courtyard of House Galatea’s backyard garden - he wore a pressed military dress uniform and she’d allowed her mother to cajole her in a simple dress.

Glenn Fraldarius was kind. He took the time to ask about her and took her stinging silence in stride, never pushing her buttons. He must have known that their arranged marriage was for political convenience. Understood that he was asking her to give up too much autonomy, including over her body. Of what she could wear, and where she could go. Of having children or not.

He must have known that he’d scarcely be home, called to the king’s personal guard and traveling with him on every state visit and every trip away from the palace, leaving Ingrid alone in the city with little to do and little freedom.

So he asked, kindly, and took no offense to her huffs. He almost made her feel like a child again, fighting her father for permission to do things, except that he would compliment the smallest things and it would abate her anger long enough to recognize that he was, if nothing else, observant. 

Despite all of these things, Ingrid couldn’t quite see herself falling in love with a man so dedicated to the throne above all things. What kind of partnership could they build like that?

Ingrid, without realizing, sat silently, kindling the memories of the last month as Sylvain found her hand and brushed his thumb gently where the knuckle of her first finger met her palm. It wasn’t until her phone buzzed and Sylvain volunteered to pick up the order that she realized minutes had passed.

She still hadn’t answered his question.

She was here because she wanted a last stand as Ingrid Brandl Galatea before she let her duty to her family and her promise to Glenn change her into Ingrid Fraldarius. She was here because she’d been lucky enough to find a man to fuck that could sate the buried frustrations, the invisible worries still hanging in her heart. All without asking for more than she was willing to share.

It helped that he understood where she was now. He’d been betrothed for the sake of something greater than himself, too, and now was picking up the pieces. Ingrid only hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.

By the time Sylvain returned, giant paper bag in hand, she’d turned on the bedside lamps and had an answer for him. Ingrid caught his eye as he set the bag down on the bed and passed her a water bottle he’d picked up from the front desk. She spoke in silence, and it was the last thing they said to each other before falling asleep, legs tangled, his arm draped over her stomach:

“Doesn’t sound like I’m your type, Sylvain. My heart isn’t Glenn’s.”

Ingrid returned to her own hotel the next morning, not waiting for Sylvain to wake. She took a long shower to wash the last traces of her night, packed her bags, and set off for the next town in the long, winding road back to Galatea. 

* * *

Sylvain gripped the steering wheel tight with one hand, the other arm resting on the open window. He was driving back to Fhirdiad now, and tired of hiding away in the country. The cold evening wind sweeping through his hair was a pleasant and familiar feeling: one that reminded him of late nights riding on horseback in Gautier, circling the manor until he was too tired to ride any longer. It was exactly what he’d been doing all week.

He was thinking about Ingrid’s eyes. They had an amazing property. In a fraction of a second she could be gazing at a wall, far off and isolated, and immediately turn her gaze soft, and close. They were wide as oceans when he’d told her about Kyrie, and they remained focused on him as he told her the pieces of their engagement falling apart.

They had the same color that the lakes in Gautier did when they’d melted and the sun reflected right off of the surface. He remembered her tracking the edges of the bruise on his face - which had finally healed. It had made him want to take her hand and press them onto his cheek, as if her touch would soothe the broken skin. 

He hoped their night together was as good for Ingrid as it was for him. He’d pieced together that it was her last hurrah before entering into an arranged marriage, and Sylvian remembered that feeling bitterly. He’d scarcely met Kyrie, who held a ceremonial position as there were no more knights in the Sreng military, before they were promised to each other. They were at least adults, but they’d met exactly once at some backroom deal as their fathers shook hands. She’d thrown him a look of scorn he still hadn’t forgotten, and their move to the capital saw her bring a host of personal bodyguards and valets. Sylvain assumed one of them was her actual lover.

A year and a half of playing house later, she’d finally had enough of his attempts to be civil and threatened to throw the whole arrangement out altogether. She hadn’t given him much of a choice. If he didn’t fall on the sword -  _ easy with your reputation _ , she’d said, scoffing - she’d make some accusation and blow the whole peace treaty out of the water. At least if he took the blame, his father could save face.

It would probably ruin his diplomatic career, and he could imagine the media tour he’d be subject to already. He knew Dimitri would probably never fire him, but he’d certainly lose out on a lot of the more prestigious diplomatic missions for the next decade.

Hopefully Ingrid’s situation wouldn’t be so volatile, even if she wasn’t yet in love. Plenty of arranged marriages worked - Sylvain thought Dimitri and Byleth, who was more shocked than anyone that Jeralt would allow such a thing, until she’d actually met Dimitri. It took all of a duel and a bottle of brandy for her to rescind every mean thing she’d said about him, privately or otherwise.

Ingrid hadn’t said much else about the topic, and Sylvain didn’t want to pry. Whoever Glenn was, he’d have to earn his way to Ingrid’s trust. She read like a closed book, and if anything, that she’d spent any longer with him than the first time they’d had sex was a surprise to him.

Maybe it was his own desperation. Until last week he wouldn’t have imagined soiling his promise, even though he wasn’t the one to give it in the first place. He’d agreed and it was enough, and so he endured a year of being touched starved and left to dry.

Taking trips out of the country helped - at least he didn’t sleep in a cold bed every night, though he was perpetually alone. It was tough to think about living a life without knowing intimacy. He’d had plenty of sex during his philandering days, but none of them ever lived up to the hope he’d had of the marriage partner he’d eventually have. Kyrie had taken that hope and buried it, and for once Sylvian was glad that their arrangement was ending.

He was even more glad that Ingrid had followed him out of the bar and offered the night and, officially single again, Sylvain had no place to refuse.

That she was able give him more than one moment was a gift. The second her lips touched his Sylvain could feel the weight of the last year lift from his shoulders. Every touch further than that was a bonus, and every request she made, every command she’d given him on how to touch her, sent waves of relief through his heart.

It proved that he wasn’t worthless, as a lover, just unwanted. There was a difference.

He’d probably never see Ingrid again, and the night was enough to stifle the need for intimacy, at least for now, as he returned to Fhirdiad. But it was his one middle finger to Kyrie, to his father, to Sreng, memories he could think about over the next month while kissing ass on TV or whatever he’d have to do to cover for her. 

At least the break wasn’t his fault. He’d tried, and Kyrie had made the decision and pushed them to the brink. He’d done everything he could to help her maintain appearances, going so far as turning his head the other way when she went on hunting trips with her escorts or blatantly boasted of his foolishness in his own home. It wasn’t that he didn’t know - it was that he was trying to be the bigger person about it. 

A week ago and a day ago, he would have been furious. A week ago, he’d traded his anger for escapism. He was past both of those things now. The week away was enough to let his indignation pass - and he certainly didn’t hate Kyrie for being forced into their situation. He just wished there was a more civil way for them to put the chapter to a close. 

As the country roads turned into highways, Sylvain pushed the thoughts out of his mind, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the way the lights of the suburbs slowly floated into his view. Fhirdiad always had a brilliant skyline, and the drive into the city was second only to the view via airplane, on the way back from trips abroad, where he could see the city grid glowing orange and yellow. 

Tonight, the brightest of the stars were still visible, despite the light pollution from the city, and he let them guide him through familiar roads and streets, until he pulled in view of his driveway. 

The house was empty now - Kyrie had taken the week to move out and into a hotel until she could move permanently back to Sreng, and thankfully she’d taken very little of the furniture and belongings there. 

He quickly unlocked the door and turned his phone back on before setting it down on the counter, waiting for the inevitable barrage of missed notifications, calls, texts, voicemails. He went to change and returned to the rest of Dimitri and Felix’s messages, asking where he was and hoping he was fine.

It was probably too late to call Dimitri, so he shot a quick,  _ just made it home _ text. They’d need to have a longer political conversation later, as king and diplomat. But as friends, it was enough to tell the man that he was safe.

Felix, on the other hand, deserved a better explanation than a text. He picked up on the first ring.

“So you’re alive,” Felix said, as Sylvain put him on speakerphone and walked into his living room.

“Back home, ready to make the rounds and fall on the sword. Wanna come over and get drunk?” Sylvain doubted Felix would, but it was good to get it on his mind for the next week.

“Welcome back. Unfortunately I can’t tonight. My brother’s fiancee is joining us for dinner tonight.” Felix sounded almost annoyed, which was normal when it came to his brother. Despite how close they were when they were younger, Glenn was, of all things, far too moral for Felix. 

Sure, it came in handy, especially when it came to taming Miklan, but Sylvain knew what it was like to live up to an unreachable standard. 

“Oh. Didn’t realize he was-”

“It’s taken over your news cycle,” Felix replied, cutting him off with a chuckle. “Buys you a few days.”

Sylvain bit back a laugh. He’d probably faded from them by now anyway, until some state publicist hired by his father came to help repair their diplomatic image. “Come over tomorrow then?”

“Yeah.” Felix paused, probably thinking. “She’s our age. Dimitri’s going to be extra about all of this.”

“I look forward to the group chat already.”

Felix hung up, and Sylvain turned the TV on to see the older Fraldarius brother’s image with the headline:  _ Kingsguard head, Glenn Fraldarius, announces engagement to the heir of Galatea Industries _ . 

After a moment, a blonde woman appeared, and Sylvian bit back a choke as he recognized her emerald eyes.

_ Oh.  _ That  _ Glenn. Fuck. _

Sylvian shut the TV off and fell onto the couch, too shocked and tired to think anymore. He didn’t think about the name Ingrid gave anymore than he needed to - it was her secrets, and he tried not to hold onto them. Maybe he should have - he just never expected someone he should have known about to appear at a bar in the middle of nowhere. He probably should have listened to the ominous feeling he got from seeing Jeralt’s crest on the wall, though he wasn’t really that superstitious. 

Sylvain closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. This was a problem for tomorrow him, just like the rest of his problems were. Tonight, all he could manage was to rest and prepare for the cascade of turmoil headed his way.

In the early morning, just after sunset, Sylvain’s phone buzzed. He didn’t wake, but the notifications continued as he slept:

> **Dimitri** : Hi everyone, this is Dimitri. I figured we should start a chat. Ingrid, you’ve probably already met Felix but it is nice to meet you. Ingrid is marrying Glenn and joining the Fraldarius house. Sylvain is part of house Gautier. And I am, well.  👑

> **Felix** : ...

> **29-614-5667** : It’s good to meet you, this is Ingrid.

> **Dimitri** : So. Dinner? 


	3. salt song / triple 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> listen along to the playlist 
> 
> _To feel my heart is my home / Something to call my own / I want to fill my house with light  
>  &  
> Call out my name like something from the bottom of a well / How I cling to your sleeves 'til they're all fucked beyond repair_

Sylvain woke up to another half dozen texts from Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid trying to schedule, and immediately shoved his phone into a drawer and got up from the couch. Between the shock of realizing exactly which Glenn it was that was marrying Ingrid, and remembering that he was in his house again, he had too many thoughts swirling.

While Kyrie lived in the house, all sorts of attendants and maids came in and out to clean and help maintain it. It wasn’t a massive mansion by any means, but there were four rooms on two floors, as well as a living room, a sitting room, a dining room, and a small extension into the back yard that had three glass walls. Neither she nor Sylvain were hurting for money when they bought it, and they’d figured it would be good to have space for business meetings and guests from Sreng.

Now that she was gone, this was the first time he’d lived here alone since the day they bought the home. Sylvain had thrown himself into his work as soon as he realized that she planned to let their relationship grow cold, and the state of the house showed.

Kyrie’s belongings, now removed, were mostly contained in their bedroom and her private office on the second floor. Sylvain’s office was on the first floor, along with the guest room, and he’d let the mess spread into the extended room that jutted out of the side of the house and into the yard. He’d put two long tables in the back of the room, by the sliding door that led outside. The rest of the square room had a couch and a few small chairs. 

There were papers, books, and files everywhere. It had gotten especially bad over the last four months as Kyrie began to hint at her ultimatum; Sylvain had responded by stopping at home just long enough to wash his clothes and refresh the books and paperwork he needed before leaving on back to back diplomatic trips.

It wasn’t until two weeks ago when she’d officially broken off their engagement that Sylvain slowed down and asked for a leave from the diplomatic corps. Over the last several months, he probably spent more time at the state building than at home, preferring to work overnights instead of returning to an empty bed.

Not that he’d had any expectations of things changing - but between Kyrie’s personal attendants and how out of place he felt around them, leaving a mess was all he could do to maintain a presence here.

Now, though, the house finally felt his. It was hard to explain the difference - it wasn’t really any less emptier. But knowing that he was the only person that came in and out of the place bolstered his mental stamina. Even if it was lonely.

Stress cleaning was a new practice for Sylvain, but he threw himself into it. He found empty boxes of copy paper and sorted every sheet of paper into boxes to be shredded and to give to his secretary for filing. He finally sorted his books back into their respective bookcases, filling a commendable wall in his office. And, he actually put away all of his clothes in his closet.

The kitchen was the room he spent the least amount of time in. Playing house with Kyrie, for the most part, included public events; they rarely ate together in private, and Sylvain had no reason to cook. It was a shame, because he’d finally bought a collection of pots and pans and kitchen knives as a consolary engagement gift to himself, hoping, at least, that they would find common ground over meals. They sat gathering dust, but Sylvain cleaned each of them now, hanging the pots and pans over the island and setting his knives into the wall-mounted knife rack against the wall of the counter.

By the time he was done, he was sweating. He’d even vacuumed and mopped, reclaiming every square foot of his house. He moved the furniture Kyrie had picked out into the sitting room until he could have them taken away and stood in the emptiness of his home and took a deep breath.

Shirtless, with a hand towel wrapped around his head like a bandanna, and ready for a break, he finally went to pick up his phone from one of the drawers in the living room, along with a bottle of water from the kitchen.

His first order of business was to order groceries. It wasn’t that he couldn’t go out, but there was something charming about the idea of cooking for himself as a single man that he wanted to pursue first.

Then, he sent a text to Felix, asking about dinner plans. Felix replied with an address and a time - he’d probably already made reservations, knowing him and knowing how he’d probably be glad for any reason to be busy and not engage in his family’s engagement celebrations. 

Only then did he read the group text from Dimitri.

No one could ever doubt that Sylvain loved Dimitri like a brother. As his king, Sylvain would take a sword of a bullet for the man with no hesitation. As a friend, however, his texting skills left much to be desired.

He understood the sentiment - his personal guard was getting married and what better way to welcome her than to host her and introduce her to his only friends that were actually her age. No doubt Dimitri was aware of the power dynamics in an arranged marriage and wanted to give Ingrid some connections that weren’t related to her betrothed, even if he was a man Dimitri trusted with his life.

That said, inviting them to dinner is as  _ Dimitri _ as things get. 

For one thing, scheduling time with the king, even for personal friends, took weeks. Sylvain himself usually had to feign a reason to shadow the secretary of state in order to see his friend face to face, and even then only usually managed to get a  _ hello _ in before being shuffled out the door. Their communications were reserved to texts, mostly, or the rare email. 

For another, Sylvain really wasn’t sure he wanted to join in the first place. His public life was going to be an embarrassment for Dimitri as it was; no need for his friends to figure out that he’d already met and slept with Ingrid before all of this. Especially no need for them to learn how.

No, that was a whole problem not worth even circling, and Sylvain turned his phone over in his hands a few times before settling on a reply.

> **Sylvian** :  _ Schedule without me and hopefully I won’t be shaking my ass on TV when it happens. _

A few minutes later, the message got a thumbs up from Dimitri and that was that.

Having Ingrid’s number was another problem, and Sylvain spent the rest of the day pondering it. He took a shower, cooked himself a meal once his delivery came in, and sat in his office, wondering how bad the media circus would get.

The treaty with Sreng was one of the last major peace treaties left for Faerghus to sign. Now that they were at peace with Adrestria, the Gautier-Sreng border was the only possible place that could erupt into battle. Even then, they’d been in an unofficial ceasefire for a year before Sylvain and his father sealed the official paperwork with a trip and a promise.

Sreng would only sign the official peace treaty upon marriage, it turned out, but had no problems with an unofficial, public ceasefire as they worked out those details. Kyrie had pushed to extend the engagement in order to confirm that both parties were truly willing.

Sylvain wondered what the Sreng response was. No doubt many of them would turn against him, seeing as his past reputation, previously a private one restricted to his time in college and a few key government officials in Adrestria and other cities he’d visited on missions, preceded him. Still, Sreng wanted peace as much as Faerghus does, and Kyrie was beloved there. Many of her people understood the plight of a woman in an arranged marriage in a foreign country.

Whatever the political strategy he’d be forced to shill was, it was on him to fall on the sword and protect her honor and push for a treaty anyway. 

What would he even text Ingrid? _Hey, surprise, good sex let’s pretend it never happened_ _while we hang out with your future brother-in-law who happens to be my closest friend and our_ king _, whom your fiancee has sworn his literal life to protect. Cool_.

That would go over about as well as just telling Felix to his face and seeing what happened. Sylvain let his musings swirl through his mind as he took a midafternoon nap and waited for his dinner date with Felix.

\------

Unfortunately, dinner with Felix didn’t assuage the growing feeling of dread as he realized his  _ what to say in a text to Ingrid _ problem wasn’t going to go away. 

He’d actually typed out a message on his phone a few times before quickly erasing it on the way to dinner. Felix had a knack for picking low key places. They weren’t as instantly recognizable as celebrities, but it wasn’t wise for the two of them to be meeting downtown Fhirdiad and getting caught by the news outlets for the horrible crime of being friends. Besides, Felix always found places with good food and discretion.

The restaurant was in an old brick building that might have once been a garage. There was a tall sliding door covered by curtains, and Sylvain walked through and into a hallway flanked by more curtains. The hostess shuffled him through another curtain to the side, into a room with a small table against a brick wall, lit dimly by candles and an orange incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. 

Sylvain got there a few minutes before Felix did and he’d typed out another message and hovered his finger over the send button.

> **Sylvain** : This is Sylvain. There’s not a way to get out of dinner with Dimitri but I won’t come near you after that. Who knew.

Felix got there in time for Sylvain to close out of his messaging app and shove his phone into his pocket, standing up to give the other man a hug. Felix reluctantly allowed it, likely because Sylvain had disappeared for a week and Felix was worried. He’d probably never say that, but Sylvain could tell.

“How’s Annie?” Sylvain asked, testing the waters. Sometimes their meals were silent, with Sylvian carrying the conversation with his problem of the day. Other times, they talked business. Rarely, though, Felix would actually give him an update of something happening in his life. He claimed it was because nothing much happened, but that was a lie.

“Excited to meet Ingrid,” Felix repled. “Mercedes apparently knows her pretty well. They’re having some hangout later this week.”

Sylvain’s eyes flitted between the menu, though he’d already made a choice, and Felix, who shared this choice of gossip with a blank look on his face. Sylvain almost blanked, but caught himself and got the conversation moving. “I take it that means you haven’t done anything worth being her mad about?”

Felix rolled his eyes and set his menu down. “And how was your week off? Meet anyone new?”

For a moment, Sylvain’s thoughts flashed to Ingrid, hands clawing at his back, blonde hair spread out on the hotel bedroom. He blinked them out of his mind, hoping Felix wouldn’t notice. “No, just a whole lot of driving,” he lied. 

Felix scoffed, and Sylvain grumbled, “low blow,” making Felix grin and hide it behind a sip of water. The waitress came to take their orders before either of them could press on. Two decades of interacting with Felix led to some interesting dynamics. He was perceptive and empathetic, but hid every piece of knowledge he had, hoarding his own reactions. 

Sylvain knew how to get the most out of his friend, but most of the time, they swapped jabs until they’d run out of topics to tease each other with. Anyone on the outside might see it as antagonistic, but Sylvain enjoyed the tactical side of their conversations. It softened the way for anything vulnerable he’d actually want to share.

“Your publicist come yet?” Felix asked as their food came. Sylvain was thumbing his phone through his pocket, still pondering what to say as the waitress set his plate down. He’d ordered a simple pasta dish with white sauce; Felix had gone for seared fish and vegetables. 

“Tomorrow. I get to spend 72 hours in a media bootcamp and then go on every talk show to repair our image, or whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing.” 

“Sounds ridiculous.”

“I don’t even think the people of Fhirdiad care. Not like Sreng-Faerghus relations are a big topic anywhere outside of Gautier. But I guess my father needs public support from his own people to move on and I’m the scapegoat.”

Felix paused between bites and shot Sylvain a look that told him that was the closest Felix got to giving verbal encouragement. He took a sip of water and nodded in acknowledgement. After a beat, Felix spoke.

“The wedding is later this year. I’m not prepared to be in public for so long. God forbid Glenn ask me to be his best man.”

Sylvain had guessed right. Felix was worried, though it was about more than Sylvain. Still, the mention of the wedding sent a chill down Sylvain’s spine. He definitely needed to text Ingrid, if only to gauge her reaction to the whole thing. She’d have to have thought about it by now, and it would be better if they had the same non-story and lack of reaction to each other when they finally met in person. 

Plus, he couldn’t help but feel the wave of empathy at their marriage of convenience, especially after he was just getting out of one himself.

“You wouldn’t stand for your own brother?” Sylvain asked.

“I’ve got one brother and he’s not getting married anymore,” Felix said, glaring, and Sylvain grinned. Felix being sweet only served to mask a deep annoyance. It happened a lot with Annette; now it pointed at Glenn, whose decision to marry meant more work for Felix as their father prioritized the arrangements. 

“I could blush,” Sylvain replied. “But I won’t. So what do you think of her?”

“Who, Kyrie? Or Ingrid? Kyrie is a bitch but Ingrid is too good for my brother.”

Sylvain quirked an eyebrow, but Felix didn’t say any more. Instead, Felix droned on about having to manage the rotations in Dimitri’s guard to accommodate Glenn's time off and how much of a pain in the ass it was getting to be.

It took Felix getting up to go to the bathroom for Sylvain to finally muster up the courage to text Ingrid. It helped that Felix liked her; it meant he wasn’t as annoyed at Dimitri’s dinner as he fronted. It didn't, however, give Sylvain any sense of ease that he’d managed to keep a straight face about Ingrid this whole time. 

He sent a quick text under the table as soon as Felix got up, and the reply came immediately. 

> **Sylvain** : This is Sylvain. Uh… well shit. 

> **Ingrid** : Honestly I should have been able to recognize your face. 

> **Sylvain** : I won’t come near you after dinner. I can pretend not to know you. 

_ Ingrid is typing… _

Sylvain looked up, saw that Felix hadn’t yet returned, took another sip of water, and turned his gaze back down to his phone. 

> **Ingrid** : It’s fine, Sylvain. Let’s not pretend I’ve waited all my life for Glenn. I’ve had boyfriends before.

> **Sylvain** : right. Glad you’re in Fhirdiad. Text me if you need anything.

> **Ingrid** : I will. 

Felix came back to the table, and caught him smiling stupidly. He fixed his face and put his phone away. 

“You ready?” Felix asked, putting his jacket on and pointing his thumb at the door.

“Yeah.” 

* * *

The path to the royal palace was, compared to Ingrid’s expectations, surprisingly lax. She passed by two security checkpoints, flashing the badge that Glenn had given her, and was waved through right into the doors of the palace itself. 

Glenn was off duty tonight; he’d retired to his small apartment just a few blocks from the palace for the night after picking Ingrid up from her flat. They’d decided not to live together yet. It was one of the kind decisions Glenn had made for them, giving her a little more freedom from expectations. Claiming  _ tradition _ was straightforward enough for him, and it meant that she could have more space and time away from him.

Ingrid was both grateful and annoyed. This split made her feel like a second priority. She was, for Glenn, but he didn’t have to be so upfront about the distance in between them. Ingrid would have liked for him to put a little more effort in courting her despite the foregone conclusion of their union and that, perhaps, they’d never begin their marriage on equal footing. Keeping her an arm’s length apart only served to remind her of that difference.

Still, having free time to explore the city, spend time with Mercedes and her friend Annette, and adjust to the new rhythms and expectations that Fhirdiad demanded of her wasn’t an opportunity Ingrid took lightly. She’d been out on the town almost every day, often by herself, but with the aid of a few friends’ directions and suggestions.

It was the one way that having Sylvain’s phone number was convenient. Ingrid still wasn’t sure what to think of the fact that her last hurrah of freedom tryst lived so adjacent to the players in her new life, but his advice on gallivanting through the city was welcome. 

In just a few weeks she’d visited three museums, an aquarium, and walked the long commercial street with luxury stores and hundreds of people out shopping. She’d been able to find a gym that offered her privacy - a different location than the one Sylvain frequented, but run by the same friendly people that understood the kind of media attention a high profile engagement came with.

She’d even started asking Sylvain for some of his favorite places. He’d offered pin drops sent through her maps app and told her to go in the evenings; she’d ended up on a tour of the high hills just east of downtown, which held an amazing view of Fhirdiad’s skyline. Punctuated by tall skyscrapers and centered on the royal palace, which shone a brilliant blue throughout the night, Ingrid could see why Sylvain would want to escape to the hills.

It was odd, then, to be walking the very steps towards the palace now, on the narrow, winding staircase flanked by rose bushes that led right to the palace’s personal entrance. She’d met His Highness briefly, just a few minutes with Glenn as Rodrigue introduced their engagement to His and Her Highness. But this was the first time she’d get a chance to meet him in a more casual setting.

Dinner was just the four of them - Dimitri, Felix, who she’d had the pleasure of spending time with with Rodrigue, and Sylvain, who she hadn’t seen in person since the night at the hotel room. Ingrid couldn’t understand why people didn’t like Felix; sure the man was rough around the edges and sharp everywhere else, but it was almost endearing the way Annette talked about his softer side.

Sylvain, on the other hand, she’d seen on TV. She felt bad for him, having to retell a story that was shades from the truth. At least, from what she’d picked up from Felix directly and Glenn through subtext, and Sylvain’s own words. 

Sylvain had texted her earlier that day about meeting in person again. 

> **Sylvain** : How should we play this? Total strangers?

> **Ingrid** : I don’t mind, Sylvain. Whatever would be less of a scandal for you.

> **Sylvain** : … 

Ingrid understood the poor optics, but considering how small the circle was and how well they kept each other’s secrets, it was a non-issue to her that she’d had a past with anyone. If it drove a wedge between childhood friends, that was one issue - Sylvain and Glenn were nearly the same age, after all. But to tiptoe around something that neither of them had any idea about was ridiculous.

She was more worried about the dinner she was walking into. Ingrid hated to use Glenn as a shield, but his presence would have been nice to help interpret the king and his relationship to his closest friends. It was an honor to be invited into his presence, but she was entering a group that had known each other from birth as the outsider, and Ingrid was keenly aware of that.

An attendant let her into the door without bothering to check her badge, and directed her to a long hallway that split into a T. At the far wall was a giant mural of Dimitri and Byleth, and around the sides, Ingrid realized, were murals of past kings and queens of Fhirdiad. At the end of the hallway, another attendant led her left and in front of a tall set of double doors that she supposed was the dining room.

Ingrid took a deep breath to steel herself, and pushed through the doors.

When she told Mercedes of the group dinner, the other woman had laughed.  _ Don’t worry so much; they’re all very nice _ , she’d said, and told her to expect it to be nothing like the formal gatherings they were around. She didn’t say much more than that, but laughed in a way that told Ingrid that this actually might be quite fun.

Nothing prepared her for the sight of His Highness, hand holding his temples, sitting at the head of a long table while Sylvain and Felix, who sat on each corner, traded verbal jabs.

She could see Dimitri slink in his seat as Sylvain, who wore a simple grey hoodie and jeans, pointed his finger while keeping his drink from spilling. Felix, who was wearing a business shirt and sat cross legged, leaning back, nodded to whatever Sylvain said. Dimitri shook his head and looked around the room for something to cling onto - and caught a glimpse of Ingrid walking into the door.

He nodded to himself and stood up quickly, and it looked to Ingrid like he was mouthing the words,  _ I’m saved _ as he strolled right past Sylvain, who was mid-sentence, and towards her. Ingrid bowed on reflex, but Dimitri put his hands up in front of him.

“None of that here, please. Just friends here,” he said, holding his hand out for her to shank. “Dimitri, I know we met the one time in a more official manner but that is much too formal for me.”

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” she replied.

“Come, sit, food will be ready soon. Dedue, who you might not have met yet, is cooking and he is the best chef in Faerghus.” 

She hadn’t met him, but knew of the man. If Glenn was Dimitri’s right hand, Dedue was his left - half body man, half personal advisor, Dedue left Dimitri’s side less than Glenn did. The three of them adjusted so that they sat in a square, Ingrid and Felix on one side, Sylvain and Dimitri on the other.

Someone handed her a glass of something but otherwise, her presence did nothing to alleviate the issue at hand for the three, which was the cause of the loud debate she’d walked right into.

“Okay, to recap. Dimitri. You want to name your children  _ what _ ?!” Sylvain said, gesticulating madly.

“Does Byleth approve?” Felix asked, with an air of disapproval.

Dimitri shrunk in his seat, before taking a breath and rebuffing himself. “My love has… not yet heard the latest drafts,” he said, as firmly as he could muster. “What exactly is wrong with Gerald?”

“Everything, Dimitri,” Sylvain said, exasperatedly. “Ingrid, please, tell him.”

The three of them looked at her. Felix looked exactly the same, and Sylvain had the glint of asking her to humor them, but the look on Dimitri’s face was completely different than she’d expected.

She’d only ever seen him on TV or in an official capacity. He looked regal, and wolfish - intentionally gruff, His Highness produced an air of authority and invincibility, especially when he wore his royal attire. He had a broad back and hunched it just so that looked like he was twice as large as a normal man.

Tonight, though, he looked almost boyish. He’d swept his wild hair back, and it even looked like he wore his eye patch looser, if it was possible for a black piece of cloth to look more casual. It was also odd to see the king wearing just a white shirt, and so relaxed. She’d never imagined him not carrying the burden of Faerghus; and Glenn had never talked about him in any way less than requiring total protection.

Maybe it was one of Glenn’s flaws, to be unable to see his peers as less than the office they carry. Dimitri as the throne, Felix as his subordinate, Ingrid as his legacy.

Her silence hung in the air until Felix’s shoulder gently bumped into hers.

“Uh. Maybe you should ask some of Byleth’s friends for advice before presenting them to her...” she said. 

Felix shook his head, and Sylvain laughed, and the conflicted smile on Dimitri’s face told her that she’d read the right thing.

“I will…. Take this input into consideration,” he replied, just as Dedue entered the room, pushing a two tiered cart ahead of him. “Ah, thank you Dedue.”

“I have heard Miss Galatea has quite the appetite. I hope this will suffice.” 

Dedue set the food on the table before them and bowed his way out of the room. It was a lavish spread - a full roast, sides of pasta and salad, some barbecue skewers and a stew that Ingrid guessed was from Duscur. When the official date had gotten slotted in, someone had asked about dietary restrictions. She let Dimitri explain what everything was, before they dug in.

The food was delicious. There was certainly much to the claim that Dedue was the finest chef in the country, and even Felix, who ate with precision, piled his plate a little more full than normal. The flavors were heaven for Ingrid, who ate happily and let Sylvain take the bulk of the work of sparking conversation, chiming in when she could but otherwise observing the dynamics between the three friends.

She’d never expected them to be so casual with each other. Her only real experiences with rich and powerful people, save her own family, was with the businessmen that her father associated with. None of them spoke with such candor and trust. 

Still, there was a question burning in her mind, and Ingrid finally found a lull to ask it. Dimitri had asked about how she was finding Fhirdiad, and she’d shared some of the places she visited. Dimtiri’s eyebrow shifted slightly, but otherwise was intrigued and asked whether Glenn had suggested anywhere for her to go.

“No, he’s been far too busy. It’s odd to me that he isn’t here, in fact; I expected him to jump to have time with the king and myself. He sounded so excited when we announced it at the palace.”

Sylvain and Felix caught each other’s eye, but said nothing. 

“That’s because I asked him not to come,” Dimitri said with a warm smile that had a little too much of a hint of sadness to it. “You see enough of him, hopefully, when you are alone. You need friends.”

At the word  _ friends _ , Felix scoffed and Sylvain rolled his eyes and his whole head back. Ingrid sat back against her chair, waiting to understand what had passed between them.

“Way to be subtle, Dimitri,” he said, clapping his friend on the back. “She  _ has _ friends, remember? Mercie and Annette have been taking her around the city.”

When Dimitri didn’t reply, Felix sighed, and Ingrid looked over at him. Felix’s face was always stoic, but she’d begun to find the little cracks that signaled his emotions. Annette had told her of a few of them, like the way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was about to say something honest. 

“Ingrid, I don’t mean to color your lens of Glenn. But my brother has always been exactly who he is, for better or worse. Dimitri is saying, we don’t expect you to have to keep those thoughts to yourself and play politics around him.”

“In other words,” Sylvain added. “Glenn’s kind of stuck up sometimes, and we all need to rant about it. But he’s been there for all of us our whole lives.”

The way Sylvain talked about Glenn reminded her of the things she’d heard about his own older brother. Ingrid glanced at Sylvain’s cheek. The bruise had completely healed, but she wondered whether Glenn had been there for him about that, too.

To her side, Felix twitched. Dimitri, who’d been looking passively between Ingrid and Sylvain, moved his head just slightly to meet Felix’s eye.

There was a pregnant pause, before the two of them yelled at the same time.

“You fucking didn’t-” Felix strated, cut off shortly by Dimitri’s “Oh my  _ goodness _ .”

Sylvain looked up like he was guilty of something, and Ingrid understood that they’d picked up on the fact that she and Sylvian weren’t just meeting for the first time. The serious air around Glenn lifted, in exchange for the exasperated tone of the other two. 

“We leave you alone for one week Sylvain,” Felix said, hand covering his eyes, “Good  _ Sothis _ .” 

Sylvain put his hands up in front of him as Dimitri started, his boyish voice replaced with the regal undertones of His Highness.

“Right after you say something nice about Glenn, too. What am I going to do with you.” 

It was Sylvain’s turn to shrink in his seat. He looked at Ingrid, pleading for help with his eyes.

“How did you even-” Felix said, stopping his sentence with a palm to his forehead. “Ingrid, of all the people in the world, why this donkey?”

“Hey!” Sylvain said. “At least call me a nice ass.”

Both Felix and Dimitri groaned, but Ingrid cut in at that moment. Sylvain had been the subject of plenty of accusations over the last month; she wouldn let herself be at the center of another one, even if it was just between friends.

“I didn’t tell him who I was,” she said, voice as serious as she could muster, defending her one-time lover in front of her future brother-in-law and her king. “If it were anyone else it wouldn’t be worthy of a breath.”

She glared intensely at the middle of the table, not daring to target her ire at either Dimitri or Felix. To her surprise, though, neither of them said a word.

Instead, Felix shot her a smirk, and Dimitri nodded, and they traded a knowing look in between them. Ingrid couldn’t catch what it meant, but something told her that she’d earned their trust in a way that being engaged to Glenn alone couldn’t.

Sylvain broke the silence by putting up a hand, smoothing out the air in the room. He flashed his smile and pushed the slices of cake towards each of them.

“Thanks Ing,” he said. “I’m glad you have my back.”

She nodded as the conversation quickly flowed into Felix talking about Annette’s latest drama with some of the other instructors at the mage academy, who, apparently, had been seeing each other and getting nearly caught by the headmaster. Annette had been trying to get more through Mercedes’ confessional box, but the bishop refused to say or confirm anything.

Ingrid took a bite of cake as she considered what had just happened. There was a level of trust in this room that far surpassed any of the friendships she’d had or seen before.

It wasn’t that they distrusted Glenn, or held anything against her future husband. But they were willing to acknowledge the way they’d all loved or been loved by Glenn as brothers and lived through his shortcomings. It was as if they were offering her a haven for the times when she would have to play wife in public - more often than not next to Dimitri and Felix - and telling her that they saw the role she was asked to play and saw more in her than that. That who she was to Fhirdiad, to Faerghus, that the throne was more than Glenn’s wife, or the union of Fralradius and Galatea. 

And that Glenn would love her with all that he had and if it wasn’t enough, that they would offer theirs to her, too.

This realization sent a warm glow through Ingrid’s chest, helped in part by the delicious feast and the happy laughs of Sylvain and Dimitri and Felix as they rolled into the night, catching each other up and dragging Ingrid into mundane yet infuriatingly amusing digs at each other. 

She only hoped, with little faith, that their banter wouldn’t eventually be eventually aimed at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have become my worst enemy and posted a 5k+ chapter good lord
> 
> Thanks to liv for dimitris baby name LOL


	4. monarch / f a r a w a y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFANDI. my chapter word count grows. [listen to the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BX6ayHqXCqqXcQ6y5K3Ma?si=txBET5d6Rs6Gezca4V-3cg).
> 
> But if you love me / I won’t know what I am  
> & She makes me wonder what I'm doing / Spending all these seconds away from her / The time I'm losing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tags I added for this ch!

For all of her expectations of her eventual marriage agreement, Ingrid never expected for her engagement party to be held at the King’s Palace. Glowing a brilliant green and navy blue for the occasion, Dimitri had invited the country’s elite to celebrate his personal guard’s engagement.

It was, to the tabloids and the kingdom’s commoners, the party of the year. For Ingrid, it was another display of shock and awe. It didn’t help that she was finally forced to wear a  _ gown _ . Made for her by the King’s personal tailor, in consultation with, apparently, one of the finest designers in the country, the final design was subject to much speculation.

Ingrid’s arrival at her own party - arm linked to Glenn’s, who wore a brilliant dress uniform complete with the gold regalia set aside for the King’s most trusted men - turned every head in the room and thousands more watching the red carpet event live on television. The party itself was free from the press, thankfully, but the hundred meter walk to the palace doors was probably the most stressful walk of Ingrid’s life.

For one, Ingrid hated wearing heels, and walking for so long in such perfect posture almost necessitated a tight grip on Glenn’s arm. Thankfully, he was sturdy and supported her off-balance steps with ease. He went so far as to sneak a whisper into her ear, disguised as a quick peck on her cheek:

“You can switch shoes when you get inside. No one’s gonna know.”

Ingrid, focused on walking straight, simply nodded. She’d packed extra flats along with a change of clothes in a bag that someone would bring into a dressing room at the party itself. 

She glanced down at her dress as she took a step. To their credit, Ingrid was glad they took her input. The gown was modest - thick crossed straps held the top of the dress up around her neck, leaving her shoulders and most of her back exposed. The fabric was plush and comfortable, and a chiffon piece wrapped around her waist, separating her torso from the intricately woven designs of the skirt, which flared and ran past her ankles. Somehow, the dressmaker managed to make the damn thing sparkle as the camera flashes hit.

Ingrid was particularly careful about the gown’s leg slit, which ran higher than she was expecting. Each of her steps had to be measured just right, timed with Glenn’s own gait, or it would pull up to nearly where the front of her hip met her leg. 

Sporting the deep emerald hue of house Galatea, Ingrid let Glenn walk her through the doors of the royal palace and into a round of applause. Dimitri had given them the main ballroom - a tall, rectangular room lined with pillars, and in front of those, tables filled with food and drink. Marble and gold lined the ceilings and around the room were standing height tables for guests to gather around and eat.

The party itself, unlike their entrance, wasn’t actually so bad. For the most part, they circled around a small part of the room, allowing various dignitaries and ministers to greet and congratulate them. Glenn did most of the talking.

“Thank you Lord Rowe.” Glenn shook the hand of an old, grumbly looking man who was the governor of the eastern territory, according to Glenn’s hushed whispers in between approaches. “Ingrid and I are grateful that you were able to come.”

“I’ve met your father once or twice, young lady. Congratulations.” Lord Rowe smiled and quickly turned, giving the next person in line an opportunity to say hello.

After a few hours of the same repeated conversations and a severe lack of food, Ingrid could feel the blisters starting to form on her feet. There didn’t end up being a chance to change shoes after all, and she’d forgotten nearly all the names of the various people that came up to them.

As she scanned the room, trying to find the closest table to find refreshments and a bite to eat, Glenn tugged her arm and pointed his thumb to a set of doors blocked by palace guards. 

“Let’s get away for a minute,” he said. Ingrid couldn’t nod fast enough.

He led them straight to the door, holding his hand up as various people tried to approach them. For the first time, Ingrid found a moment to glance at the rest of the room and find the few people she did recognize. Dimitri and Byleth were in opposite corners, entertaining guests, and Felix held a table on his own with Annette and Mercedes, warding off anyone that tried to join them.

Glenn nodded at the guards and barked something about food as he whisked them through the hallway and a second set of doors and into a room that had several desks, a couch, and their bags on a glass coffee table. He let Ingrid go, and she immediately sat on the couch and put her feet up.

“We’ve still got about half the room to greet, but I figure we can take a break and eat for a bit,” he said, smiling a placatory smile and taking a seat himself. “You look gorgeous.”

The compliment forced a surprised smile on Ingrid’s face. They’d spent so much of the night socializing that they’d only exchanged a few sentences with each other. 

Ingrid looked at Glenn in full for the first time. They’d gotten ready separately, and she’d simply walked into the limo when it came to pick her up. Glenn was already inside the car, and it was too dark to really inspect him.

_ He’s handsome _ , was the first thing that Ingrid realized. Of course she’d looked at his face before and let it sink in that he was conventionally attractive. Their lunch in Galatea made that clear enough, and seeing his face on TV over and over again hammered home the point. His long hair was tied neatly in a braid down his back, letting his sharp, slim face stand without frame. 

His dress uniform was a solid navy, and its collar covered half of his neck. His shoulders were pleated with gold adornments, making them look much wider than they were. Glenn was slim all around, and deceptively strong. 

He had the same eyes as his father, a cold silver that Glenn could use like a sword. They flicked onto Ingrid as she passed over them, and it sent a flutter through her chest. Glenn was a man that gave orders and observed and Ingrid could feel him weighing which to do. His eyes drew slowly down towards her waist and the slit of her gown and Ingrid’s bare thigh, and she could hear Glenn’s breath catch.

The smile Ingrid held on her face receded, and in place of it, she glanced down at Glenn’s hands, which he held as tight fists on his lap. Her lips scrunched together slightly. She wanted to tease him; to ask why he was holding so much tension, and what it was he was observing, and what it was he wanted to do about it. 

Instead, Glenn seized the opportunity. He stole a glance at the door, making sure their food wouldn’t arrive in the next moment, and leaned towards her, just slightly. Ingrid blinked as Glenn’s face came closer into view.

He didn’t sleep much. She knew that - between all day shifts and trips with Dimitri, he probably spent more time at the king’s side than Byleth did. It showed on his face; the man wasn’t even 30 and there were crow's feet around his eyes. Somehow, there weren’t perpetual bags under his eyes, though Ingrid suspected that Glenn used some kind of product to hide them. 

Glenn took another inch of the air in between them, and Ingrid leaned forward too. Glenn’s lips, despite talking for hours and not having a sip of water, remained as elegant as the rest of him. The corners of them turned up as Ingrid moved closer, and she could feel her body responding, drawn by his gravity. 

The second thing Ingrid realized was, despite their 4 months of living in Fhirdiad, they hadn’t yet been on a real date. It was a strange thing, to have an engagement party before having courted properly. She knew Glenn was giving her space to feel settled and get used to life in the city before turning her attention to him. If she ever did.

Ingrid expected to have less time to herself than she got. Instead, she’d spent a month being bitter about the whole situation and the next two months figuring out what kind of life she would be living. It was only now that Ingrid, between public events and Glenn actually being  _ in  _ Fhirdiad that they could spend time together.

Now that he was here, Ingrid realized that she might actually want to kiss him. Up close, Glenn smelled the way the air did at the top of the tallest building in Galatea. The air was thin and fresh, and held the essence of dew, and she wondered how it might taste on Glenn’s lips. Whatever her feelings towards the engagement were, they were here and he was  _ handsome _ , and a third of a year removed from her last intimate touch with a man, her fiance had given her enough space to make a life for herself.

Those were at least deserving of a peck on the lips.

Ingrid hovered in the air just an inch from him, and Glenn darted forward, pressing his lips to hers just as the doorknob turned. They both jolted backwards, Ingrid against the comfortable seat of the couch and Glenn onto his feet. One of the guards bowed and quickly walked inside, dropped off two plates, and left without a word.

Glenn’s face was as flushed as she’d ever seen it. He met her eyes for a moment, feigned a yawn, and motioned for her to eat. She’s learned, by now that Glenn gave away even less about himself than his younger brother. Still, between the way his eyes gazed past their plates and onto her lips and the way he kept the coffee table firmly in between them, even she could read his embarrassment.

It was almost endearing. 

“Do you know each of the guards here?” she asked, offering some light conversation. She needed, at least, a sense of normalcy until they could find time with the few people at the party that actually knew anything about her. “Including the one that dropped off our food?”

Glenn nodded. “I’ve trained or supervised nearly everyone that works in the Palace Guard or the Kingsguard. Except for the ones who are much older than me, I suppose.”

“Are there many?” 

This time, Glenn replied slowly. “No. Guarding the king is a dangerous job, even though the last few years have been rather peaceful. We are expected to cede our lives for the king at any moment.”

Ingrid wanted to laugh at the morbidity of the statement, but the look on Glenn’s eyes stopped her. If the eager look he passed her over with was like a sword, the way Glenn’s eyes hardened when thinking about the king was more like a shield - his look turned impenetrable and haughty, and Ingrid could understand how his childhood friends perceived him to be, in Sylvain’s own words, stuck up. 

Instead, though, Ingrid found him to be as noble as he fronted. 

“Oh,” she mustered, finishing her plate in lieu of searching for words. If nothing else, his belief in the throne was more genuine than she ever thought it could be. For the first time, Ingrid understood something about Glenn that she didn’t think he let anyone else but her see: there was a part of him that didn’t want to die for the sake of his duty. 

It was the barest flash, and as he blinked slowly, smiling to no one as his face softened, Ingrid could see the traces of the feeling wash away. Then, Glenn passed Ingrid her bag and Ingrid put on her flats. 

Ingrid wiped the crumbs off her skirts and Glenn offered her a hand up from the couch. She took it and waited for him to tuck her arm in his and lead them out back to the party. Instead, he kept a firm, gentle grip on her hand and looked her in the eye seriously. 

“Ingrid,” he said, voice as soft as he could manage. The way he said her name was full of restraint, as if to even say it was to cross a line he’d set for himself, and she met his eyes level as their hands stretched between them.

“I don’t need to be your ideal partner or to pretend like I’m going to be able to fulfill all of your needs.”

He took a breath and squeezed her hand once. “I just need to know your resentment for our circumstance does not amount to your resentment of me.”

Then, he closed his eyes slowly again, nodding slightly, and drew her to his side before she could respond. Ingrid, too stunned to respond, simply leaned her head against his shoulder and let him lead them back to the very full ballroom of guests ready to congratulate them. 

In between the remaining introductions, Ingrid thought about what Glenn was trying to say to her. One the surface he sounded as impersonal as she’d ever heard him. His words almost rang hollow: how could she separate him from the fact that they’d been betrothed without consultation?

But there was something hidden in the timbre of his voice that suggested differently, and Ingrid suspected it was Glenn’s attempt at vulnerability. For a man whose livelihood and honor rested on his complete invulnerability for the sake of his post, Glenn was allowing her to see the most human sides of himself that he could present. If nothing else, that was something worth cultivating and protecting. 

However unfair she found the weight of their circumstances to be, it was still true that Glenn held on to his humanity deep underneath his Kingsguard armor. Which was not to say that the facade he lived was any less authentic than the worries he was trying to share with her. 

And, if he were anyone but the man her hand had been promised to, any of the times they’d shared in private would have been more than lovely dates. She wouldn’t have had any second thoughts about going on any more, or spending time with him.

As it stood, she was torn between meeting Glenn’s vague vulnerability with her own, or confiding in her instincts, keeping him at a distance. It wasn’t a decision to be made lightly.

Ingrid decided, then, to treat Glenn as everything but the man about to be her husband and tease him. 

The first opportunity came another hour of greeting guests later and she got her first chance as Dimitri and Byleth finally escaped the endless hellos, meeting them as they snaked past the dessert table.

“Heads up, Edie sent a delegation in her stead and they’re going to try to say hi and woo you into visiting. Don’t make a commitment,” Dimitri said, grinning. Ingrid furrowed her brows in confusion as she chewed on a slice of cake.

“It’s a game the two heads of state play,” Glenn explained, taking an eclair. “Every major event they try to embarrass one another by proxy.”

“In other words,” Byleth added, shaking her head. “Sibling rivalries. Pay it no mind.” 

“I’m just saying, you may not visit Enbarr without explicit permission,” Dimitri said as Byleth softly whacked him on the hand with a churro. “Ow.”

“Visit Enbarr whenever you like,” Byleth said, sternfully. 

“I’m sure the city my husband-to-be is in during our honeymoon will be the least of his worries,” Ingrid replied, throwing a side glance at Glenn, who’s arm stiffened immediately as he realized what Ingrid was saying. 

Both the King and Queen’s eyebrows raised, and Glenn managed, somehow, to suppress a blush. 

“I leave it in your hands then,” Dimitri said, patting Glenn on the shoulder and turning away before his grin grew a mile wide. Glenn narrowed his eyes at Ingrid, who, too, looked away before the laughter on her face could grow. 

Ingrid did it again as they, somehow, managed to get away from their guests to join Felix, Annette, and Mercedes. Sylvain, she noticed, wasn’t at the party at all. 

Felix greeted them with a curt nod and Annette pulled on his arm by the hole of his sleeve as she waved them over.

“Enjoying yourself, Ingrid?” she asked, smiling cheerfully.

“Now that I’ve officially met everyone and have no more obligations, yes,” Ingrid replied. “If only I could remember their names.”

“Just let Glenn remember them for you. He’s got to be good for something,” Felix chimed, glaring at his older brother.

“He’s carried the conversation far too many times tonight already,” Ingrid replied as an attempt to keep the peace. 

This time, it was Glenn who surprised her. “Ingrid only needs to remember one name tonight,” he said, so softly that the rest of them wondered if he’d really said it at all. 

Felix snorted, and Mercedes covered her laugh politely, but Annette lost it completely, laughing so loudly that several people who were passing by glanced over.

“God are you Sylvain now?” Felix asked, shaking his head. 

Ingrid responded by gripping Glenn’s arm tighter, kissing him on the cheek, and leading them away from the table of their friends, all of whom were still struggling to maintain their composure

“Did you mean it?” Ingrid whispered, once they were out of earshot. 

Glenn smiled, made sure no one was glancing directly at them, and stole a kiss on Ingrid’s cheek that left the side of her face burning underneath her makeup. 

* * *

They retired to Ingrid’s place after the party wound down enough that slipping away through a side door was straightforward. Glenn’s quarters, a private suite in the barracks section of the guard, were in the royal palace, but offered too little privacy for a couple celebrating their engagement.

Her apartment wasn’t as bare as it used to be when Glenn handed her the keys a few months ago. Despite arriving to Fhirdiad with just a car full of her belongings, she’d furnished and decorated the place the way she’d always wanted to, and she rather liked the quaint feeling of her place. It would change, maybe, when she and Glenn took a home together. 

But for now, the kitchen was well stocked with cookbooks from all over Faerghus, and the small hallway between the bedroom and the bathroom was full of hanging pictures of her brothers and what few she’d taken with Annette and Mercedes. These things and the maps of Fhirdiad she’d found and pamphlets from every museum she’d visited so far that hung on her walls were enough to call home. 

Using the stipend that she received from house Fraldarius, Ingrid had put in a couch and desk in the living room, and a small table for two in the space between the couch and the kitchen. On it was a small candle, which Ingrid lit and slid against the wall. She didn’t bother to turn on the rest of the lights.

In the dim light, she motioned for Glenn to take a seat and pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses and set it between them. Glenn took his jacket off, setting it carefully on the chair before sitting. 

They’d sat across from each other plenty of times, but this was the first time they’d truly been alone in her apartment. Even when he picked her up to join his family or to have another formal dinner with someone important and worth meeting, he usually waited by the door, holding it for her until she could click the lock shut. 

Ingrid took the first sip of wine, a sweet red she found on a trip to a local winery. The owners recognized her from TV and offered to throw in a few vintages in hopes that it would secure her patronage. So far, it was working.

“It won’t be like this forever, you know,” Glenn said, raising the glass of wine to his lips, smiling as it hit his lips. “The attention. The only other celebrity relationship news this year is Sylvain’s and, between the two, ours is by far happier. Once things settle down, you’ll be living a mostly normal life in the city.”

The last few months were a leisurely dream, and it was hard for Ingrid to imagine what normal even meant. Between the discomfort of being in the public eye, and the unreasonable amount of people she was expected to meet and remember, the only glimpses of normal she’d had have been times with Annette. Even those felt like living someone else's' life; the rest of Ingrid’s time was spent with Felix, Dimitri, and Sylvain, whom she’d affectionately named the Faerghus boys in their group chat. 

In any case, once they were wed and Glenn was back to his full-time duties by Dimitri’s side, Ingrid’s normal would revolve around waiting for the few breaks he would get to be with her. Otherwise, she expected to play the role of the good housewife and find a way to kill time. 

“You mean it’d be time for me to get a job?” Ingrid replied. Glenn, at least, had heard more than few of her worries about being placeless. 

Glenn shrugged. “If that’s what you want. Between our families, I’m sure it would be straightforward to find something worthy of your time.”

He smiled as if unsure that his answer was the right one. It was perceptive of him. After their brief conversation over a rushed dinner, Ingrid had been wondering how to give him the kind of sincerity that let him lower his walls. So far, she’d struck out, save for the moment he’d stolen an embarrassed kiss. He played along with her teasing, and was as comforting and honest as he usually was, but now that she’d seen him with his guard down, even these moments seemed stiff and formal. 

He must have noticed something, because in his confusion, he turned to stonewalling her until she moved the conversation along. So, Ingrid let the silence float in between them as she thought through her response, and decided to not address their family connections altogether.

“I don’t resent you, you know,” Ingrid said, over a slow pour of wine in her glass. “I just don’t know how to see past your uniform yet.” 

It was Glenn’s turn to take a long sip of wine. He finished the mouthful left in his glass, and refilled it slowly, swirling the liquid around as he leaned back against his chair. He took a deep breath before speaking. 

“Ingrid, I don’t expect my present efforts to be sufficient to overcome the awkwardness of our arrangement,” he said. Under the table, Glenn crossed his legs and folded his hands the way she’d seen when he stood on guard at the palace. “But I’m grateful you haven’t written me off.”

It was the formality again. Ingrid hoped the sincerity underneath his words meant,  _ I’m trying _ . The candlewick on the table popped, spending a spark and the smell of smoke into the air.

Glenn looked like he was searching within himself. His bottom lip pressed up, wrinkling his chin, and he blinked slowly and in tune with his breath. 

“Present efforts?” she asked. 

Glenn took another sip of wine. “I’ve only ever thrown myself into my work. For most of my life, all of who I am meant to protect the throne. This is the first time I have had something equally worthy.” 

Ingrid gulped down another glass of wine and refilled it. She’d known this -- from the very beginning she knew that the expectations on her were to be present and faithful and not much else while Glenn’s duties filled his life. Still, the way he spoke of her -  _ equally worthy _ \- sent a wave of hope through Ingrid that she didn’t realize she was willing to feel. She tapped her finger against the table, considering what to share next as they volleyed candor back and forth.

“I realized something about you, tonight,” she said, hoping that he’d confirm her observations. “I’ve had all of these assumptions about you, but I’ve never really stopped to see if they were true.”

“Doubtless inspired by the king and my brother,” he replied, offering a somber smile.

“And Sylvain.” Saying his name was a reflex that sent a wave of worry through her. Around Sylvain, she found that she didn’t care about how they’d met. Around Glenn, though, it was another matter. She could feel the awkward weight of having opened up more to a man akin to a younger brother than to Glenn himself; doubly now that she was asking Glenn the same kind of trust.

“Ah. So what are those assumptions?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and refilling his yet again empty glass. 

“That this,” Ingrid waved in between them, “was a farce. Just for show.”

Glenn nodded slowly.

“That you were thrust into this as unwillingly as I was by our fathers. That you’ve been keeping your distance because you’re not really all that interested.”

“Mm.” His hand tensed around his wine glass, and Ingrid pretended not to notice. 

“And,” she said, taking a breath. “That I’m going to resent this life with you.”

Glenn looked at her with a look in between his piercing observantness and the way he glanced at each of the guards at the palace, who he’d trained and cherished. 

He slid the wineglass back and forth on the table using his fingertips. “What’s changed?”

Ingrid looked past him, watching his shadow flicker against her kitchen drawers, thinking about sharing a home with him. 

“I…. I don’t think I find you as distasteful as I used to, after tonight.” She glanced down at her emerald dress, the skirt train pooled around her ankles, before meeting his eyes again. They were waiting for her gaze, and she could see the candle flame reflected against them. 

Glenn leaned forward, and the whole room’s air came with him. “What did I do tonight?”

Ingrid wanted to reach out and touch his face with her hands, but kept them against the edge of the table.

“You shared something with me. For the first time in months of knowing you, you said something meaningful and honest and it reminded me that you’re a person with feelings and emotions and not just Dimitri’s robot.”

Glenn snorted and took a long gulp of wine at the image, and Ingrid smiled and pushed her fingernails into her palms. His reply came softly, like he was trying and failing not to harden his face from his emotions. “It’s… I’ve never had to, before.”

Ingrid leaned forward now too, resting a hand on the table in between them. She was close to a breakthrough, of guiding him to earn enough of her trust that she can imagine their future. She took a breath and held it.

“I need you to, Glenn. It’s the only way this can work. I don’t want to end up in a cold relationship, half expecting you to die at the king’s side without ever knowing who you were apart from that.”

His hands inched towards hers. “I don’t know if there is anything in me apart from that.”

“There must be, Glenn. For me, there must be.”

“For you, then.” His hand cupped her cheek, drawing her into a brief kiss. She could taste the wine on him, and she blushed realizing that they’d both had more than a few glasses by now. 

He tried to pull away, but Ingrid pulled him into another kiss. She wasn’t sure whether he’d bed her tonight or whether he’d pull away and claim tradition and wait. But for the first time, Ingrid could imagine him doffing the layers of heavy armor he wore, and she welcomed his advance.

As if reading her mind, he turned her head and kissed the side of her jaw. Ingrid felt her cheek reddening from his touch and from the buzz of the alcohol. She remembered, earlier in the evening, the way he’d glanced at her dress and averted his eyes from the slit of her skirts. Just as she felt the urge to squeeze her knees against each other, she remembered the other worry weighing on her cut through the foggy haze of wine and his touch. 

She pulled away, leaving Glenn’s breath uneven. 

“Glenn,” she said, wondering if honesty would ruin the moment. “I have to confess about something.”

Despite his disappointing loss of her touch, he seemed almost ready for the statement. “Yes?”

Ingrid met his eyes, now wide and full. “I slept with Sylvain. Before I came here. I didn’t know who he was and it was before we-”

A thousand thoughts ran through Ingrid’s mind as he held up a hand to stop her and didn’t even stumble over his words. 

“Ingrid. Who I am has never been defined by what my wife-to-be did before we were even married, nor how others may perceive her for it.”

“I-” Ingrid started, but Glenn cut her off. 

“Please Ingrid. I don’t need to know. You ask me to be more than who I am to the throne, and I will. But just as who you are is not defined by your status, I will not have who I am defined by what is out of my control. Nor will I have our marriage defined by what we have not done together.” 

This time, the blush of embarrassment warmed their way through her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed of the night with Sylvain. But to ask Glenn of so much of himself and to have already given so much of herself away without him was a worry Ingrid never thought she’d have to reckon with. That night she’d said that her heart didn’t belong to him, but for the first time, seeing who Glenn was - who he could be - he was offering her what little of his heart he could give away. It was enough for her. 

Glenn stood, finishing off the remainder of the wine in his glass, and found her hand, helping her to stand. Warmth spread through her chest as Glenn pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. 

“I know it is a challenge for you to bear what comes with my duties.”

“That…” she started.

“There are expectations of us as our houses join. Appearances and nobility, like tonight, is one. Figuring out how to live while your husband is absent is another. Please know that what you do or not do bears no impact on how I see you.”

Ingrid realized what he was saying a second after, and she pulled her head back as far as she could, fury filling her eyes. “Please don’t  _ ever _ imply that I would take a lover in lieu of you,” she said, voice low.

Glenn took a step back, taking her with him in an awkward, off-balance motion. “All I am saying,” he said, pulling her against him again, “is that I will put my best efforts forth until you ask me not to.”

Ingrid tilted her head up, brows wrinkled in discernment. The way he held her told her that he was being sincere, and she softened her stance. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he said back. Then, he tilted her head up and kissed her.

Glenn’s kisses were hesitant, at first. It was as if he was gathering information before committing himself to the act. His arms kept her trapped against his body, and he could feel his muscles pressed tight around her. 

Despite the strength of his grip, there was a tenderness that she’d never imagined Glenn capable of. She let him walk them backwards into her bedroom, and then pushed him down on the bed so that she stood in between his legs, which hung off the foot of the bed while he propped himself up on his elbows.

“Show me, Glenn. That I don’t have to forget about you.”

Glenn sat up, wrapped her in his arms and pulled her down. His touch was enveloping. He flipped them so that he could straddle her, and unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it away so that she could see the shadows of his muscles, illuminated by the small glow of her bedside lamp,

Glenn didn’t let her remove her dress. Instead, he kissed every part of her that was exposed with intimate attention. Her shoulders, her neck, and soon even the tops of her thigh were warm under his breath. 

Despite her assumptions about his past dating life, Glenn wasn’t inexperienced. 

His hands, rough and calloused, stroked against her neck as he finally pulled the zipper of her dress open. He kissed her as she guided his face and wrapped her legs around his core. 

It was odd to be treated at the center of his attention. She imagined it must be the same as how he tracked the king’s every movement, and every possible piece of data in their surroundings. He was methodical, experimenting until he elicited the right reaction. Glenn thought little about his own pleasure, and Ingrid practically had to ask him to finally strip himself and perform his duties to her. 

When they were done, Glenn gathered her in his arms, back against his chest, and kissed her behind the ear. 

“I’m going to leave before you wake,” Glenn said with his arm on her shoulder. “I did not plan to spend the night away and have duties in the morning. Forgive me.”

Ingrid thought about asking him to say, or helping him create an excuse. On the eve of his engagement party, Glenn had every right to take the morning off. But tonight was a start, and it wasn’t worth ruining what progress they’d made. It was a battle for another day. 

“Okay,” she said simply. “I’ll forgive you tonight.”

* * *

True to his word, Glenn was gone before Ingrid stirred awake. The pillow he’d borrowed was cleanly pressed and he left almost no traces that he’d even been in her bed. 

A sole ray of light broke through her curtains and flashed in her eye, signaling that the morning had come. It was the same sunbeam that refused to be blocked, bending its way into her eyesight at 6:42 each morning.

Ingrid prepared her morning coffee and looked through her phone, which she’d left on her desk along with her keys and bag and forgotten about when she and Glenn returned.

There were several selfies from Annette, along with a reluctant Felix, and a few check-ins from the group text, but one in particular caught her eye.

Sylvain had sent a short text before the party last night.

**> Sylvain** : Sorry I can’t be there.

Whatever was going on with him, or whatever the reason he’d dodged the party of the year according to the news, it couldn’t be good, and besides, there was a question she wanted to ask him now that she’d experienced all Fhirdiad’s media frenzy had to offer.

She typed out a reply and his response came shortly after:

**> Ingrid** : how do you deal with all of the attention?

**> Sylvain** : you ok?

**> Ingrid** : yeah, just overwhelmed

**> Sylvain** : want to grab lunch? 

**> Ingrid:** yeah. That’d be nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> officially get to update my tags to ingrid/glenn!! they are engaged after all.... sorry for those looking for more Sylvain in this; his chapter is coming next and we'll check in with how the media circus has been going. and for those worried about where I am heading with the story - bear with me. this isn't a story about emotional affairs or infidelity though, I promise. Soft and fluff all the way, with hints of angst. - jul
> 
> update: beautiful commission of this by [@yzderia](twitter.com/yzderia), thank you night!! 


	5. we can never go back  / doorstep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [listen to the playlist here ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BX6ayHqXCqqXcQ6y5K3Ma?si=_tx-Ljy2QZSXenTxeOYy4w)
> 
> _  
> Remember how close we came / Wanna try that again, again  
>  &  
> Oh you walked with me through it all / And I never even took your hand_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all sylvain all day!

Sylvain could see the lights from his office in the state building: a brilliant green and navy, the colors of Galatea and Fraldarius, beamed into the air with spotlights. He was surprised they didn’t add fireworks, though it was likely that Dimtiri came up with it and had it shot down by someone more responsible.

His phone had been buzzing all night, but he buried his nose in the stack of papers on his desk. Sylvain’s father sent a publicist, and the publicist came with  _ plans _ , and it took weeks to convince her that she could just leave him the notes and he’d memorize it. Five talk shows and interviews later, he proved capable enough that they barely had to interact.

But now, he’d memorized every line and came up with answers for questions buried so far down the list of things he’d get asked that he wondered if anyone else but his publicist had thought about them. His phone kept buzzing and he finally picked it up to see a text from Felix.

**> Felix ** :  _ annette is bullying me and this is your fault _

He typed back a reply and the  _. . .  _ of Felix’s typing stopped.

**> Sylvain ** : _ it isn’t my fault that you went and fell in love with a gossip _

**> Felix ** :  _ oh  _ that  _ gets you to respond. The party’s winding down. You want to come by Dimitri’s? _

It was always weird to call the palace _Dimitri’s_ the way they did in college when he’d been mandated by the Kingsguard, then still led by Rodrigue, to rent a penthouse instead of living in the dorms. It became the go-to spot, though they couldn’t take anyone else there except the few of them - Ashe and Annette in particular, but a few others too - that passed the security clearance. Or got vouched for, or _be_ _Dedue_ , as Sylvain remembered fondly when a new guard had never met the man and pulled a taser on him for goddess’ sake. 

It was good that the party was finally over, though. It was a bad look, according to the publicist, to go to the event. With no mercy for the fact that it was his childhood friend’s engagement party hosted by his other childhood friend, and that a third childhood friend was the groom’s brother, she’d simply said to take the night away from the cameras and stay away. 

He wondered what he missed. 

For the sake of not torturing himself, Sylvain kept the TV off, too, and hid any of the apps on his phone that might show pictures. Better to miss the whole thing than to see it from the outside. Since the dinner a few weeks ago, texting Ingrid became a lot less awkward, but he let the thread drop off as they got closer to the engagement party. Sylvain thought that it might be better for her to have one less thing to think about. 

He hadn’t really seen much of Glenn either - his media duties kept him away from the palace, and with the upcoming trip to Sreng looming, he’d neglected to text the man. Glenn was busy, too - Sylvain wasn’t privy to the intel reports, but security had been beefed up and Felix wouldn’t even hint at why during dinners. The man was his only social lifeline, despite finally having finished redoing his house, and didn’t like talking about work after work. 

**> Sylvain ** : _ i just finished. I’ll walk over _

Sylvian pulled up the rest of his texts and saw that most of them were group texts from Dimitri, who was giddy texting the couple walking in before having to talk to the rest of the guests. Playing host was one of his favorite things - usually to flex on the poor nobles that dared to come into his domain, but secretly the man just wanted an opportunity to walk around with Byleth in public whenever he could. 

Sylvain didn’t reply in that chat. He put on his jacket and stuffed his papers in a briefcase and closed his office down. 

The walk between the state building to the capital was a brisk 20 minutes, which gave Sylvain plenty of time to stop thinking about showing up on the news to talk about Sreng-Faerghus relations and promising that his marital struggles wouldn’t interfere with the peace treaty. 

He’d done five talk shows, the radio, and several panels in two weeks, and had a few more before actually going to Sreng to talk about the peace treaty. There’d be another round after that and hopefully they’d get everything signed and dealt with afterwards.

It didn’t seem like much, but the amount of prep and coaching that the publicist demanded was extreme, not to mention his regular workload picking back up again. She demanded several hours of his day just to drill interviews, as if Sylvain didn’t already have a silver tongue. On top of that, he had to explain to his assistant why the rest of his office was pulling extra hours to cover for him. 

He let the thoughts of work, of burying himself in business to try to find some semblance of normal, and of the worst of the questions from his interviews pass as he walked past the capital street, past hundred year old buildings and under gargoyles. Sylvain used to hate this part of the city - rich in history, lacking in modernity. But in the last year he’d come to enjoy the quiet clicks of his shoes against the concrete steps and the way they helped him remember that some part of his life was dedicated to good even though his half with Kyrie was suspended in some awkward intermediate of a relationship.

By the time he got to the palace, most of the guests were gone. The media went home shortly after the party started, an argument he made for attending that was shortly dispatched with,  _ but the guests will know _ , and regardless Sylvain slipped inside through a side entrance and went right to the private wing and the small room Dimitri kept for him.

A few minutes later, Felix, Annette, Dimitri, Byleth, Dedue, Mercedes, and Ashe came through the doors and into the common area and Sylvain joined them.

Annette and Byleth were halfway through a discussion about how good of a job the designers did, so Dimitri waved him over to sit with him and Felix while the others got the drinking games started. It was tradition, after all.

“Sylvian,” Dimitri said seriously. “Great job.”

“What did I do?” he asked, glancing over at Felix for help, who was busy not paying attention to them and was instead staring over at where Annette was.

“Ingrid had a good time.” 

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Just because I told her who to avoid doesn’t mean I get to take credit. No one wants to talk to the Gloucester kids, even if they are all grown up.”

Felix suddenly turned to him. “Where were you?”

“Weren’t you getting bullied?”

Sylvain caught the distracted look in his friend’s eye. Felix, obviously, had had more than a few drinks, and at the reminder of his own text, a tipsy one in hindsight, Felix’s cheeks blushed.

“God Felix,” Sylvain exclaimed, shoving him lightly. Felix took the opportunity to roll onto his back, stand, and walk over to Annette, leaving him and Dimitri alone by the corner.

“On a serious note,” Dimitri said, surprising Sylvain. “Your Sreng trip. Pack extra. I have a fear that they’ll drag their feet on the treaty and force you to stay there to regain honor.”

Sylvain regarded his friend and king. Dimitri’s wisdom had grown since their college days, no doubt due to the tutelage of his advisors, but he had an uncanny way of sniffing out actions of his adversaries. Despite the history, peace with Sreng was one of the minor treaties that Dimitri had set out to build upon ascending the throne. Adrestria was the first, and Leicester would come soon, but Duscur was the most challenging of them all and held most of the Ministry of State’s attention. 

“What are you saying, Dimitri?” he asked, choosing to play coy, knowing Dimitri would see right through him.

“As your king, I trust House Gautier’s judgement to get this treaty signed,” Dimitri said, brushing a tuft of hair from his face. “As your friend… I don’t want to see you dragged through the mud anymore than you need to be. But they’re going to try to ruin you while submitting to your father. Be careful.” 

Sylvain nodded as Dimitri clasped his shoulder, and that was all he got to say before several pairs of hands pulled them away towards the dining table. It was set up with plenty of plastic cups, assorted drinks, and the excited chatter of who was going to win the assortment of drinking games they played every time they all managed to find time together.

Sylvain let the rest of his thoughts drop in favor of enjoying a precious night with his friends.

He didn’t remember when he’d fallen asleep, but everyone was sprawled out on the floor. Annette was using most of Felix as a pillow - half her torso was mounted on top of him. Mercedes and Dedue were the only ones responsible enough to find a part of the couch to sleep on; Ashe fell asleep while  _ sitting  _ against the wall. Dimitri and Byleth retired to their quarters, which was responsible, but Sylvain found himself somehow half upright against the back of a chair.

His phone buzzed a few times and he picked it up, wondering who was texting him at 7am.

**> Ingrid** : how do you deal with all of the attention?

_ Oh _ . He’d forgotten to text her to ask how it went last night, despite meaning to as soon as he got to the palace. If nothing, the media coaching he’d gotten might have been helpful for her. He hoped nothing happened. 

**> Sylvain** : you ok?

**> Ingrid** : yeah, just overwhelmed

Overwhelmed is a reasonable reaction to Faerghus’ party of the year - someone had said even Adrestria and Leicester sent delegates from their respective capitals. And besides, a formal party at the palace was nothing to scoff at. Ingrid hadn’t asked any questions about it in the group chat leading up to the event, but had Sylvain not attended his fair share of them, he wouldn’t have known what to ask either. 

**> Sylvain** : want to grab lunch? 

**> Ingrid:** yeah. That’d be nice

* * *

Sylvain picked an inconspicuous place he’d found through Felix and texted Ingrid the address. The tiny restaurant didn’t even have a Yelp, though not because the spot was particularly exclusive to Fhirdiad’s elite. It was more that business came through word of mouth and the menu prices were high enough that people didn’t come looking.

The food was good, though, and Ingrid was guaranteed to like more than one of their lunch options. Located near the heart of Fhirdiad’s shipping district, the restaurant operated out of a small corner of a warehouse that extended out past the walls via hollow shipping containers, which acted as hallways, and into a clear tent outside. In the evenings, there were lights strung around the top of the tent, but at present, the sunlight was more than enough.

Rustic wooden tables, metal chairs, and brass details finished the aesthetic, and Sylvain watched as Ingrid walked through a shipping container, confused at where the host was leading her.

She stepped out of the shadow of the container and into the clear tent and scrunched her eyes before scanning the room and finding him.

“I don’t even want to know how you found this place, but this is the bougiest thing I’ve done in Fhirdiad so far,” she said, taking a seat. A waiter poured them both water and handed them menus and gave them a minute to choose.

“You’ll like the food,” Sylvain said, as Ingrid looked over the menu. 

She looked like she’d been up late. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, and she was wearing an old cropped college sweater with a tank top underneath. A far cry from last night’s gown, or the business attire she took to wearing anytime they were with Felix or Dimitri. Surprisingly, though, she looked like she was part of Fhirdiad’s popular fashion circles with the outfit. 

“Late night last night?” he asked, half joking and half curious. The party was certain to drain all of Ingrid’s social energy tanks, but he wondered whether her early morning text was just about the socialites and nobles she’d crossed paths with. 

Ingrid’s arm stiffened for a second, and Sylvain realized that he might have hit a sore nerve. He leaned back against the bench to try to act nonchalant, but Ingrid leered at him from over the menu. He decided to head off whatever she might be thinking his purpose was. 

“Not that I’m suggesting anything,” he added quickly, setting his menu down.

It relaxed Ingrid a bit, and she shrugged. “Last night was overwhelming,” she said simply.

Sylvian was sure she was talking about more than just the party, but didn’t know how to ask, so he glanced back down at his menu again even though he’d picked out his order before even arriving. He made a show of it when the waiter came back, asking about a few options and ordering appetizers anyway, and by the time the waiter had taken their orders, Ingrid blended right back into their environment.

“How was the party?” he asked, trying again to get a sense of the last night.

“If I never said hi to any of those people again, I would live a happy life,” she replied. “God how can so many people  _ care _ about one wedding?”

Sylvain raised an eyebrow. Ingrid was looking right at him with a look he hadn’t seen before. Usually she looked like she was on guard, making sure not to say the wrong thing around the wrong people. Now, it was like she was gazing right through him.

“Because they all crave the need to feel important,” he replied, folding his hands over each other in front of him. “Sorry I couldn't make it.”

Ingrid looked past his shoulder, and when her eyes met his again, they were back to their normal, calculating look. “Late night for you too?”

One of the consequences of spending a month around a publicist and his office staff and no one else was that Sylvian’s guard remained up for hours at a time. It was only when Felix could sneak him away, or when he got home to sleep and read and journal that he could be honest with himself. 

Despite this being their first time alone together since the night they met, Sylvain felt oddly at ease telling Ingrid exactly what was weighing him down. He thought that she might want to hear that before diving into the topic she’d asked him about. 

“Yeah. I’ve been up every night for the last week preparing for another round of facing the media before actually finally going to Sreng and meeting with their heads of state. 

Ingrid’s gaze snapped to him and she stared at him again, reading into “You’re traveling to Sreng?” she asked, obviously surprised that he was willing to travel to his ex’s home country of all places.

He nodded. “Yeah. We have to get the treaty signed somehow, and some kind of apology or public humiliation will probably seal the deal. Should be fine as long as I don’t run into Kyrie outside of state events.” 

Truth be told, Sylvain wasn’t as worried as he thought he’d be. He’d always been good at putting on a front, and a few days bearing the weight of their frigid relationship was worth finally closing the deal and moving on with his life. However annoying his publicist was, she was good and helped him work through suppressing whatever emotions they’d try to entice out of him.

Their appetizers came before Ingrid could reply, and they both dug right into the small gourmet sandwiches, filled with a garlic butter spread and local greens, as well as the host of things that Sylvain had ordered before Ingrid got there. She didn’t bother to ask why there was so much food, and tried a bite of everything before turning her attention back to him.

“How’re you feeling about that now?” she asked, immediately taking a bite of a baby carrot dipped in cheese fondue.

She caught him as he was trying to swallow, and he put his hand to his chest to help the food go down to answer.

Kyrie was something they actually hadn’t talked about yet. They traded texts back and forth, but the conversation was mostly about the city, and for the most part their time with Felix and Dimitri was spent making new memories rather than sharing about old ones. The most he’d said was the night in the hotel, and even that was a simplified version of the events. 

“I’d invite you over to see my house, but you didn’t see it before she moved out. Besides it’s not a good time for me to have company…” he said, trailing off. He hoped the offer to say more was sufficient. 

“You renovated?”

Sylvain nodded proudly. “Everything. I finally feel like I live there.” 

Ingrid offered a soft smile in between bites of food. “I’m starting to feel that way about Fhirdiad.”

“Yeah?”

“I kind of know my way around now. It might change, I guess, when Glenn and I live together and I move out of my apartment. But for now….”

Ingrid’s shoulders dropped as she talked about living with Glenn, and Sylvain cut her off, speaking up as her voice lulled and she thought about what to say. 

“You could keep it, you know. Split your time when he’s out and have a place to yourself anyway.” 

She looked up from her plate with a quizzical look on her face. “See this is part of why this damn city is so… extra! Two homes?”

Sylvain just shrugged, ignoring that it was more than uncommon for those with the means to keep two residences in the city, especially when they needed to put their work ahead of their families. His father did, and Rodrigue; they each had two places at the capital as well as their mansions in the territories. “It’s only fair, if you expect not to live with him most of the year.”

“Yeah, well. We’re working on it.” Ingrid looked past his shoulder again, and by now Sylvain realized that whatever was troubling her involved Glenn as much as it did Fhirdiad’s opulence. 

“I’m gonna take a leap and say that this is part of what’s overwhelming?” he asked. “Hold on, our waiter is coming.” 

She looked at him as if he’d thrown fire at her, but the rest of their food arriving helped temper Ingrid’s reaction. As the waiter put their plates - a delicious eggs benedict for Sylvain, and a massive stack of pancakes, french toast, eggs, and bacon for Ingrid - the look on her face softened. Sylvain bit right into his hash browns until Ingrid looked up at him and nodded.

“....Yeah,” she said, sighing. “We…”

He could tell by the frown on her face that saying whatever she’d been keeping to herself - about Fhirdiad, about her engagement, and about their newly formed friend group - had been turning over on itself for longer than she cared for.

At Ingrid’s hesitation, Sylvian held up a hand. “Look, I don’t know if I’m the right person to talk to about this, given… yeah, anyway. But I’m your friend now and I’ll listen to whatever you need to say, so don’t worry.”

Ingrid closed her eyes and gave him another soft smile, nodding to herself before taking a huge bite of pancake. She followed it with a long sip of water, and set her hands on either side of her plate before speaking again. Sylvian felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the way she so seriously prepared her words and took a breath. 

“I told him,” Ingrid said. “I told Glenn about that night, and I didn’t plan to but, you know what he said to me?  _ I don’t care about who you were, just about who you are now _ . Not in those words but the bastard! All but said he didn’t care and all of this energy I’ve put into hating the very idea of him… fuck, Sylvain.”

She dropped her head into her hands, utensils forgotten and left on the sides of her plate. “I think he’s someone I could actually love,” she said, taking in a deep sigh.

Sylvain reached over the table and put a hand on her shoulder. It was all he could do to fight the rigidity setting in his body. He felt terrified, knowing that Glenn knew and that he might have ruined another relationship, but the way Ingrid nearly held herself with her hands was the more pressing worry.

He didn’t know what to say, so he gently gripped her shoulder and offered what comfort he could. After a moment, Ingrid leaned back against her seat and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. Sylvain, too, sat back.

“Sorry, you didn’t need to deal with all of that. But thank you,” she said.

Sylvain nodded and smiled. “Not to worry, my friends see the sides of me that aren’t related to my huge penis and substantial fortune,” he quipped.

Ingrid bit back a laugh. “You’re a good friend, Sylvain. Annette told me about how you wingmanned for her, by the way. Your secret is out.”

He nearly snorted. “That I am not, indeed, an adulterer, philanderer, and only took a diplomat job so that I can sleep with women from every country in Fodlan?”

“Exactly.”

“You should be my character witness.”

“Okay,” she said, turning her attention back to her plate.

It was amazing to see Ingrid recover from nearly crying at brunch to demolishing the food on her plate. Sylvian watched in awe as food disappeared into Ingrid’s mouth. He was grateful that she trusted him with both of these - not have to pretend to eat so daintily, and to share with her the highs and lows of her life in Fhirdiad. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said, cutting into a second poached egg, “It was worth every ounce of energy I put into making a marriage with Kyrie work. It was her that gave up, not me, and whatever part I have to play to make a peace treaty happen, that won’t get taken away from me.” 

He bit into his egg as  _ casually _ as possible and still ended up chomping too hard, an inadvertent wince at the memory of waking up one morning and realizing that Kyrie would never accept his partnership or companionship, even as cordially as two people that lived together without loving each other could be. 

“Glenn’s a good man, and we’re here for you both,” he promised.

Ingrid looked away to wipe the side of her eye again, and Sylvian finished the rest of the egg. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so close to the finish!! 3 more chapters. thank you for reading and supporting me as i funnel all my energy towards this and challenge myself to write longform.
> 
> please tell me what you think in the comments!!


	6. claws in your back / drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took 3 weeks - thank you for reading. it was a hard chapter to write and picture and the story is coming close to a landing.
> 
> in this --
> 
> So try to stay calm, 'cause nobody knows / The violent partner you carry around  
> &   
> When you drown / You try your best to float / Death in your eyes

Glenn came over while Ingrid was still in the shower, with promises of takeout and dessert to celebrate her new job. The interview was straightforward and the company, according to the hiring manager, was  _ pleased _ to offer a position to the heir of Galatea Industries, stepping out for herself before returning to run the family business.

At least, that’s the narrative she told them. It was a boring, simple business job -- she was in charge of managing logistics across part of the continent in a role eerily similar to the one she expected to head at GI. There, the group was called the Pegasus Corps, but in Fhirdiad names were a bit more stock.

Ingrid signed the paperwork to be  _ Senior Logistics Officer _ at Fhirdiad Shipping Co., texted Glenn, and that was that.

To say nothing of the behind the scenes connections that got her into the interview rounds within a week -- Ingrid tried not to think about that, nor the brain numbing work she’d do to keep herself busy. 

Still, it was nice to have her own income stream, even if it wasn’t quite on par with the level of media attention she’d been getting recently. The manager promised to keep her anonymity as much as possible, though she suspected that the company was used to that. 

Between Fhirdiad’s elite and the nepotism that followed, Ingrid wasn’t sure whether she was pleased that it was simple to navigate the mess that was the capital’s elite job market, or want to work there exactly long enough to buy a stable outside the city and take care of some horses whenever Glenn wasn’t around.

In any case, Glenn brought a bag with double of his order, knowing she would steal whatever she found, and hid the dessert before Ingrid could finish up her shower.

She stepped out into the living room, where Glenn had set up their food on the coffee table and had the TV ready to play a movie she liked, hair still dripping and wrapped in a towel.

Ingrid had given up on modesty around Glenn by now. It had been over a month of him regularly coming over when he could, and most of the attention died down enough that they could actually go to public places when they wanted to. She took a seat next to him on the couch in a long tank top and underwear and watched Glenn suck in a breath.

“Hungry?” she asked, pursing her lips.

“After you,” Glenn said almost absentmindedly, eyes shamelessly looking at her bare legs. He gestured for Ingrid to start.

It didn’t take long for her to inhale her portion and half of his. The movie had just finished introducing all of the characters. Glenn had never seen it before, so he gawked at Ingrid when she put her feet up on the coffee table and belched.

He finished his food a few minutes later. Ingrid was waiting for him to stand and bring the dessert out, and he caught her pouting. Instead, Glenn pulled her so that she was nearly on his lap as she was glancing around the apartment for the promised sweets. 

“Dessert later,” he said, stealing a kiss to Ingrid’s cheek.

“And what’s now?” she asked, turning so that her legs straddle his. Glenn didn’t even hesitate as he picked her up, hands on the back of her thighs, making Ingrid yelp. “Glenn!”

He gave her a heated look that told her exactly what he planned next, before carrying her all the way over to bed.

Ingrid’s bedroom, featuring her full sized bed in the center of the room  _ like a real adult _ , was already dimly lit by a small lamp, and her sheets were still rumpled from the nap she’d taken earlier in the day.

Glenn threw the sheets off before plopping Ingrid right on the middle of the mattress, descending on her in a way that almost reminded Ingrid of the way she attacked the containers of food that he’d brought over. 

He kissed her and Ingrid let her bones melt into the bed as Glenn made love to her, legs trapping his hips in place, until they were both tired from the food and the sex. 

Unfortunately, Glenn passed out shortly after a hurried, frantic time, leaving Ingrid to hunt the goods on her own. She rolled underneath Glenn’s sleeping form, took a pit stop to the bathroom, and walked barefoot into her kitchen. 

Ingrid found it hidden in her freezer: a box of rice cake-wrapped ice cream, which she treated herself to before sliding back into bed.

Glenn was a heavy sleeper, so Ingrid didn’t silence herself as she snuggled in next to him. She learned this after a few weeks of sharing a bed on and off, whenever Glenn actually had time to walk from the palace to her apartment and wasn’t in the middle of back to back diplomatic trips. 

She quite liked the way his eyes would gloss over and droop shut a few times when he caught himself dozing off. Maybe it was because he always glanced at her to make sure it was fine to nap instead of paying attention to her.

She didn’t mind; it was sort of like being his guardian. The man was alert and responsible for every second when he was on the job, and giving him a short reprieve - being trusted to give him a short reprieve - was meaningful in it’s own right.

He was an opportunistic sleeper, too though. The man knew how to steal minutes of sleep at a time whenever he felt safe enough, and, by self admission, rarely slept more than four or five hours a night.

Ingrid felt accomplished every time she convinced him to lay still for a whole night with her, and it was even more satisfying when it was the result of her actions. Sex with Glenn went one of two ways: an indomitable bout for hours at a time, drawn out and well thought out, or a desparate, hurried experience when time was low.

Either way, Ingrid appreciated the way Glenn laid limply after, spent and tired and on his back. 

He reached for her as soon as he felt her slide back into bed and held her, still half asleep, as Ingrid let her thoughts wander. Tucked under Glenn’s arm, and with the room still and silent, Ingrid offered a half smile into her pillow.

She could get used to this -- to an apartment and friends, to Glenn and to living in the capital. Of all of her expectations about being married off, she never expected to be accommodated for. Glenn had done all of that and more. 

It was enough for her to build her life around this. Despite the arrangement being out of her hands, and certainly in spite of how she feels about their families deciding their futures for them, it was enough, and she could handle the rest of her reservations later.

* * *

Ingrid was most of the way asleep when Glenn jolted awake, kicking his foot into the corner of the bed, gasping “No!” with a troubled voice.

She’d heard him raise his voice before, and she’d heard him responding on the back foot of an argument. But this was the first time Ingrid heard terror in Glenn’s voice, and the thought of him being  _ scared _ shook Ingrid as much as the surprise.

Ingrid sat up in response. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the low light, and her blood ran cold as she focused on Glenn. 

He was panting, trapped in a dream or a nightmare, and his hands had shot up to cover his face from some invisible danger. His body curled defensively, and his hair, normally splayed out to his side, tousled into his face as he thrashed and shivered, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“Glenn, Glenn! It’s me, you’re with me,” Ingrid said, shaking him awake.

The first try didn’t work, so Ingrid rolled him onto his back and put a palm to his cheek. “Glenn, wake up.”

His eyes opened in shock, focusing on Ingrid’s face, and he pulled her into his arms before thinking twice. Ear pressed to his chest, she could feel his fast pulse and heavy breathing. They laid in silence as he slowed his breath. 

Ingrid had never worried about Glenn before. She didn’t know how to. 

It seemed entirely unnecessary when he announced himself to House Galatea, bearing the king's regalia, and even more so in the last month as they stole time with one another in the weeks after the engagement party. Even after he’d begun to let his guard down around her, sharing even the littlest snippets of himself, she was more concerned with building his trust in her being able to receive them than whether or not he was going to be fine.

But for the first time she understood what Glenn must have been withholding from her. A month ago she asked for more of him outside of his duty, and now she began to see what laid underneath Glenn the knight.

It was terror, which attacked him any time he let his guard down. It was the dread of death, and worse, of failure. The fear that he might die and that his charge might die too. Glenn was carrying two lives on his shoulders, and one was far heavier than the other.

Whatever it was that he wanted - even Ingrid - was secondary to whether or not the other life he was sworn to remained on the earth. The rest, for him, could be sacrificed.

Beneath Glenn’s shaking breath and the way his hands gripped her shoulder was the humanity she’d asked to see. Glenn was afraid to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.

His breath evened out eventually, and she broke the silence, turning to give him a small kiss on the shoulder. “Glenn?”

“A nightmare,” he offered in explanation. His voice was calm, like he was used to them. Not used to having to explain them.

“Do you have them often?”

Glenn twisted so he could look at her eyes, and brushed his hands through the back of her hair. 

“Only sometimes,” he replied. “When I do not feel confident that everything will go alright.”

_ That not everything will go right _ . The words echoed through Ingrid’s mind even as she shut her eyes closed and buried her forehead into the crook of Glenn’s neck. His hands gently massaged her scalp.

His next mission was Duscur, but Ingrid wasn’t sure if he meant that or the million other times that he’d walked next to Dimitri prepared to die. The tidbits she’d picked up implied that this trip would be the most dangerous diplomatic mission so far. There was a long history between Faerghus and Duscur, and securing a peace treaty there would require much of both countries. In contrast, despite the centuries-long border skirmishes, Sreng was almost unimportant and straightforward.

“Ingrid,” Glenn said, nudging her by the jaw so he could look at her again. 

She said nothing, but shifted her arms to frame his face and touch his cheek lightly. “Glenn,” she whispered. 

A million things flashed through Glenn’s eyes, but he settled on one thought.

“I don’t want to die, Ingrid,” he confessed. His arm wrapped tightly around her waist as he nuzzled himself into her neck. “Not yet. Not when there is still so much to do.”

Ingrid had no response. How could she console a man whose duty was to die when necessary? It was something to accept, not fight that she may lose him. It was part of why she hadn’t yet mustered the ability to worry for him - because it would all but confirm that she could and would and did love him.

Maybe she did after all. 

It felt entirely the opposite of how she thought it would feel. Ingrid always assumed that love would be total enamoration. It was the way Dimitri described it, and Annette, and it was the way she hoped it would be knowing that her future husband would be decided by her family and not her feelings. 

She’d never believed that love would come to her this way -- in the silence of night and the shadow of death.

Lacking the time to work through the complicated swirl of emotions in her chest, and unsure of how to comfort him best, Ingrid offered Glenn the best that she could.

“Then let’s get married tomorrow,” she said, voice just above a whisper. Her hands wound into his as she caught the surprised look in his eyes. 

“What are you talking about?” he said, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“Let’s elope,” Ingrid said, tightening her grip on his hands. “And cross one more thing off your list. Then at leas-”

Glenn cut her off with a kiss before she could finish explaining. “Okay.”

* * *

They called Felix at 4am the morning after. As an official in Dimitri’s court, he technically had the power to marry, and was probably the only person in the country discreet enough.

Whether he was willing was another story. Glenn told his brother to meet him at the seldom used corner of the royal palace, some unused ballroom that sat gathering dust, and said nothing about why. It was still early enough that Glenn was off duty, but Felix sounded grumbly being woken from his sleep.

He was waiting for them underneath an archway at the center of some long, tall room that Dimitri certainly never used, and Felix frowned comically low when they told him what they needed from him. He was still in most of his sleepwear - a baggy pair of sweatpants and a large hoodie, and rolled his eyes at the sight of Ingrid and Glenn in actual clothes.

“Marry us,” Glenn said, in the same flat tone he used to talk about breakfast.

“Are you two crazy?” Felix asked, shutting his eyes and pinching his nose. “It’s like 4 am and you want me to do what?”

“Marry us,” Glenn repeated.

“You’re both actually serious aren’t you?”

Ingrid grinned, dropping several duffel bags worth of things on the floor. “Yes.”

Felix’s eyes glared at Glenn, who glared back, and then glared past him. “You’re crazy.”

“Are you going to do it or not?” Glenn asked, eyeing the sunlight starting to peek through the darkness and spilling into the room. The rarely used ballroom was small. It would probably only fit fifty or sixty people, and decorated rather simply. It had white walls, golden trimming, and, around the walls, a foot or so of a raised lip that looked, from the way Ingrid was setting up a tripod, like a stage.

Felix watched the two of them look around and took a long sip of his coffee. “Holy hell okay.” 

He walked over to put the camera on the tripod while they opened their bags and got ready. Ingrid ducked off into a corner to change into a dress, and Glenn put on a jacket and tied his hair up. 

As Ingrid and Glenn took their place, Felix stole a look at his older brother.

“Are you that worried about Duscur?” he asked. 

Glenn looked back at him and nodded. “Yes.”

Later, Ingrid would realize that the moment of confession was the most Glenn had ever shown to his younger brother. She wasn’t sure if Felix had ever known about his nightmares, or if he’d ever bothered to open up about what his engagement represented to him. But Ingrid could sense the air shift between them as Felix came to the same realization as Ingrid did the night before. There was something ominous and foreboding in Glenn’s imagination, and it was something he couldn’t shake.

Felix simply nodded back to his brother, and offered the same to Ingrid, before picking up the piece of paper and starting to read.

“Welcome loved ones, we are gathered here today to join Glenn and Ingrid together… goddess do I really have to read all of this?”

Glenn scoffed, and Felix continued through the script.

Ingrid never expected her wedding to be like this, either - in some decrepit room, buried in the heart of the royal palace, for an audience of one. She imagined that it would be as grand or extravagant as their engagement party. Considering the guest list of their actual ceremony, she had no doubts it would be.

Still, there was something sweet about the way Felix read the words out to them, acting in Dimitri’s place. 

“Do you, Glenn Fraldarius, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love, to comfort, to have and to hold, in sorrow and in joy, sickness and in health, as long as you both live?”

“I do.”

Glenn’s grip on Ingrid’s hand was like iron as Felix uttered the last six words of the vow.

“And do you, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love, to comfort, to have and to hold, in sorrow and in joy, sickness and in health, as long as you both live?

“I do.”

“With the power vested in me by the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, I, Felix Fraldarius, pronounce you husband and wife. Please don’t make me watch you kiss.”

They did anyway, and made Felix play music on his phone so they could dance, too.

Just like at their engagement party, Ingrid leaned her head on Glenn’s shoulders and considered exactly how reckless her suggestion was.

Though Felix would wait to file the paperwork, they were, for all intents and purposes, officially married. Barely a month ago, Ingrid wasn’t even sure she was willing to have a relationship with her husband-to-be, and here she was suggesting that they jump the gun.

Part of it was a middle finger to the whole process. The expectation that she, as a willing wife, could be traded and bartered and have her life arranged for her was something Ingrid always resented, and the rare opportunity to find volition in the process was satisfying.

But in the brief moment between Felix and Glenn, Ingrid saw something that confirmed her haste. 

This was probably the first time Felix had ever seen his brother so human. At least since they were children. Between the stories he shared and the distance she inferred during her nights out with Felix and Dimitri and Sylvain, it was probably a shock to see Glenn with such a satisfied look, willingly in the arms of another person.

Glenn had been training since high school to join the Kingsguard - there was no time for dating, for relationships, for anything more than training and studying and learning. By the time Felix went to college, Glenn was already taking shifts outside Dimitri’s penthouse.

It was a gift, to provide this moment and moments like these for Rodrigue and Felix and Dimitri and the others, who’d been so close to Glenn yet so far. If nothing else, Ingrid was thankful to coax that out of him, to bridge their relationship and offer a lens into who Glenn was for others.

Of course, that wasn’t the role she solely expected to play, and there was likely more to unpack about what it meant for her to take a husband. But there would be time for that. 

As the song faded, Glenn kept her in his arms, and Felix coughed to get their attention.

“You know you’re literally getting married again in public, right?”

“I hope you took a video,” Ingrid chimed.

Felix rolled his eyes and pointed at the camera, which he’d turned while Ingrid’s eyes were closed. “You’re not going to tell Dimitri are you?”

“Should we?” Glenn asked.

“It would ruin his plausible deniability, but he’d want to throw you a party. Do you want a party?”

Glenn looked at Ingrid, who grinned. “Yes.”

* * *

They didn’t end up telling anyone else. Dimitri’s schedule, according to Glenn, was far too busy, and Felix went home to steal a few more hours of sleep. 

Ingrid collapsed on her bed as soon as she got home, slipping her arms underneath the straps of her dress and letting it fall to the floor. Glenn watched from the doorway before walking over to give her a kiss on the forehead.

“When do you have to leave?” Ingrid asked.

“Soon,” Glenn said.

“Are you coming back tonight?”

“Yes.”

Ingrid shut her eyes and she felt Glenn pull the blanket over her. By the time she woke up, Glenn was gone and Ingrid was hungry.

As she went through her morning routine, Ingrid wondered how things would change when she and Glenn resided together. The official wedding was still months off, but there was now no reason to keep so much distance. 

She wasn’t worried about the day-to-day of living together. Enough mornings together when he’d slept over had proven their compatibility. But that he would be gone often - the inconsistency was something she would have to get used to.

She thought about watching the video back, too. She was staring at Glenn the whole time, but his face had been reserved and emotionless, likely to keep his true feelings hidden from his brother. But Ingrid wondered if she could see past his mask on the video.

Her own look was probably somewhere between exhausted and content, something she feared she’d have to get used to.

If Glenn were in danger, would she stay awake at night thinking about him? Would she text him often, and would others call her before she learned about something on the news? 

As Ingrid prepared her brunch, she couldn’t help but wonder about the worst of the outcomes. 

What would she do, if Glenn’s life was called upon? 

Ingrid carried the thought as she cleaned the apartment and took another nap through the afternoon. She woke up to a phone call, asking her what food Glenn should bring over. Eventually her front door swung open to reveal Glenn’s tired look. 

“Long day?” she asked, setting the food on the counter. 

Glenn’s reply was terse and weary. “Going over security details for the trip.”

One of the questions that came to Ingrid throughout the day was whether or not Glenn knew something that she didn’t; whether what she had picked up in his body language and haste in the last day was indicative of something more true than she realized. Ingrid pulled him by the hand to sit with her on the couch. 

“Hey Glenn,” she asked softly. Glenn’s grey eyes gazed into hers, an eyebrow raised. “Do you really think you’re going to die?”

He sucked in a breath that confirmed Ingrid’s theory before he even replied. “Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Glenn’s other hand found hers, and he let them drop into her lap. It was awkward, having a conversation about death underneath Ingrid’s garish apartment lights, TV flashing previews of different movies to stream. But there was something so mundane and  _ normal _ about it, as well. As if these were all first experiences for the both of them.

Glenn squeezed her hands as he replied. 

“I can feel it in the season. I know that sounds… imprecise. But I wonder if this is the cost it will take to unify the continent.”

Ingrid threw her face into his shoulder before the tears could roll out, but she knew Glenn could feel the hot, rolling tear drops through his shirt. 

“It is a small price. Forgive me.”

* * *

In contrast to the ornate, old architecture of Fhirdiad, the Srengian capital looked almost brutish. Not that Sylvain ascribed Sreng and and it’s traditional ways to being less sophisticated, though others from Faerghus would. He simply thought that the smooth lines and stoney look of the Sreng foreign ministry building were built to inspire a certain feeling for its guests.

He’d been here a month, and walked through the rounded steel doors of the building over two dozen times by now. Every morning, like clockwork, the Faerghus delegation met in a conference room to receive assignments and met with their Srengian counterparts throughout the day, finalizing the treaty and editing language that would eventually be sent to the countries’ respective kings.

It was all a farce. The important matters of the treaty - the return of Sreng territories from the north of Gautier, and the redrawing of borders to match the population of Srengian citizens in Faerghus - had already been agreed on and were ironclad.

It was a generous treaty. Neither Adrestria nor Leicester ceded land to their neighbors as they secured alliances, but between the long history of conflict and the speed at which Faerghus would like to complete this and send its diplomats elsewhere, it was well worth it.

Sylvain, unfortunately, had done away with that. His diplomatic corps, bolstered by his father and a few senior officials, had gotten the privilege of over a month of detailed negotiations. His father considered it embarrassing, and Sylvain bit the bullet each day, knowing that his engagement with Kyrie was the sole reason Sreng’s officials extended the negotiations.

Thankfully, he hadn’t encountered her yet, and hoped he wouldn’t have to.

As he bought coffee from the small shop at the front of the foreign ministry building, Sylvain took a deep sigh.

It was another week sleeping in a hotel, away from his home, doing his laundry in the middle of the night. Another week without much news from the capital, save for Felix’s occasional messages and emails filled with pictures of food from Ingrid.

It was too early for the two of them to be awake, but Sylvain sent a picture of his coffee in their group chat and tucked his phone away and went to work.


End file.
